


A Safe Community for Modern, Female Professionals

by Eliza49



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Agent Carter (TV) Compliant, Agent Carter Season One, Gen, The Griffith, friendships between women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25613248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza49/pseuds/Eliza49
Summary: “Peggy seems nice,” said Carol Garcia one morning at breakfast, “but I can’t really get a ‘read’ on her, you know? I mean, I never have any clue what she’s thinking or feeling.”“I think it’s because she’s British,” offered Angie cheerfully, in between nibbling at a slice of bacon. Angie liked Peggy’s mystery, although she was also hoping to get to know her better, now that she lived down the hall.(This started out as a post-Steggy story about the friendship between Peggy and Angie, and as a kind of companion piece to my fic, Mid-week Mornings at the New York Bell Company and Summer Evenings in Manhattan. That story is about the very masculine world of the New York, SSR office, and I thought it would fun to write something about the contrasting, feminine world of the Griffith, which is the other side of Peggy’s life in season one.I think this story is still about those things, but as it progressed it definitely took on a Cartinelli flavour too. So I think it now also works as a pre-relationship Cartinelli fic. Please feel free to board whichever ship makes you happy!)
Relationships: Angie Martinelli & Dottie Underwood, Peggy Carter & Angie Martinelli, Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 33
Kudos: 68





	1. A Small Part in a Real Play

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse the UK spellings. I have tried to reflect aspects of Angie’s speech and thoughts in the prose, to give a sense of her point of view, but I have stuck with UK spellings because that is how I normally write.
> 
> I don’t know New York except through movies, TV and books, so I’ve had to base this on my secondhand knowledge. I also looked at Manhattan maps and googled information about New York in the 1940s – obviously this is also secondhand knowledge, but I did have fun doing this!

Peggy Carter was looking for somewhere to live and Angie Martinelli knew just the place.

“We’re gonna have so much fun, with you living here,” declared Angie happily as she helped Peggy manoeuvre a heavy, leather trunk into the dumbwaiter at the Griffith Hotel for Women. “Jeez, English, what you got in here – rocks or somethin’?”

Peggy smiled, and told her that she could manage the trunk on her own: she would hate for Angie to hurt herself. She didn’t elaborate on what was inside.

*

“Peggy seems nice,” said Carol Garcia one morning at breakfast, “but I can’t really get a ‘read’ on her, you know? I mean, I never have any clue what she’s thinking or feeling.”

“I think it’s because she’s British,” offered Angie cheerfully, in between nibbling at a slice of bacon. Angie liked Peggy’s mystery, although she was also hoping to get to know her better, now that she lived down the hall.

“So what’s the deal with Peggy?” asked Gloria two days later, after Peggy had gulped down a bowl of porridge and left (whilst Angie was still spreading as much strawberry jelly as she could fit onto a single triangle of toast). “She’s always hurrying off places. It’s a good-breakfast day too – real eggs! What’s the rush? I thought she worked for the phone company.”

“I bet it’s a guy,” interjected Lorraine salaciously. “I bet she’s having an affair with a rich, married man.”

“Peggy wouldn’t do that,” said Angie defensively, although the truth was that she wondered about this herself from time to time. Certainly she expended a good deal of time (and hostility) surreptitiously watching the man Peggy met regularly at the Automat (‘Mr Fancy,’ Angie dubbed him), who wore a ring on his left hand.

“I agree. She doesn’t even steal food,” reasoned Carol, as she carefully placed a luxuriously real egg inside her pocketbook. Then she frowned. “Are these hard-boiled?”

Peggy told Carol that she was “married to her work at the moment,” and she explained that Mr Fancy was “just a colleague.” (Angie couldn’t resist asking one morning, when only she, Carol and Molly were listening to the answer). It turned out that Peggy did occasionally steal food, and Angie didn’t believe for a moment that Mr Fancy worked for the phone company, but somehow she felt that Peggy was telling the truth when she said that he was not her guy. Angie was glad to think that Peggy wasn’t above occasionally pocketing a bread roll, but that she was far, far above stealing another woman’s husband. She was also obscurely pleased that Peggy didn’t have a fella herself.

*

Before Peggy moved in, Angie’s best friends at the Griffith had been Carol and Vera. On the third floor, she liked Molly Bowen in 3F best. She didn’t much like Lorraine in 3B, who made things up about other girls, or Helen in 3A, who always looked so sweet and innocent, but flirted with Molly’s boyfriend behind her back. Then Jimmy climbed in Molly’s window one night and Miss Fry, the Griffith landlady, evicted her with an air of vindictive triumph in front of all the girls at breakfast. Molly was forced to move back with her mom and dad, and hope that Jimmy would pop the question soon. (One Saturday Angie came across him lingering in the lobby doorway, waiting for Helen. “Hopin’ to climb more drainpipes?” she asked, at a volume loud enough to bring Miss Fry out to investigate: Angie left Jimmy to his fate.)

After Molly moved out, Dottie Underwood moved in.

Angie truly tried to warm to Dottie, who smiled at everyone and always seemed full of wide-eyed wonder. But all the other girls at the Griffith – having come to the conclusion that Peggy Carter was an enigma, who was only really friends with Angie – were mostly content to allow Peggy to keep to herself. Dottie, meanwhile, seemed to think that because she, Peggy and Angie all lived next door to one another on the same floor, this made them special friends – a threesome. Sometimes she even had lunch with Peggy at the Automat whilst Angie was working, so that Angie was obliged to serve them food, but was stuck on the other side of the counter and not able to join in properly. Angie didn’t object to helping out a Mid-west farm girl and showing her the sights of the big city, but she didn’t want this to eat into her time with Peggy, and she certainly didn’t relish competing with Dottie for Peggy’s attention and friendship.

“Peggy’s so _smart_ ,” Dottie gushed one day, after Peggy had left the Automat to return to work. “She’s _wasted_ at the _phone company,_ don’t you think?”

“Whatever you say, Iowa,” said Angie a little sourly.

*

On the day that Dottie moved in, Peggy and Angie had had a brief falling out: Angie wanted the two of them to spend the evening together, and had rhubarb pie and peach schnapps ready for the occasion, but Peggy gave her the brush-off and Angie took offence. They made up the next day, when Peggy came to the Automat and told Angie about the death of a colleague, and they spent the evening drinking the schnapps (Angie having moodily eaten the pie by herself, at a time when she really should have been asleep).

After that, Angie was very careful never to assume that it was okay to barge into Peggy’s room without waiting for an invitation, but a week later Peggy effectively invited herself around to Angie’s, bringing a bottle of whisky with her for them both to try. (Angie choked on her first sip and even more on her second, until soon there were tears streaming down her cheeks and Peggy hastily fetched her a glass of water. “It’s something of an acquired taste,” said Peggy apologetically.)

Then one day Dottie suggested that they all three get together for a ‘girls’ night.’ It was an evening when Angie was feeling low and tired, and when she had been hoping secretly for the possibility of spending time with Peggy (and of having her all to herself). “We could have a party at home, just the _three_ of us,” suggested Dottie excitedly, and Angie failed to stop her eyes from rolling, and her mouth from replying, “Is that what counts for a ‘party’ in Iowa?”

It was at this point that Angie was forced to conclude that Dottie really got her goat (as Angie’s father liked to say of Mr Giuseppe next door). She wasn’t exactly sure why this was, and she knew that she was being unreasonable in not wanting other girls to muscle in on her own friendship with Peggy. She also felt guilty for not being able to like Dottie more, and for not showing more patience with her childlike eagerness. (All of this caused her to compensate for her own unkindness by always knocking on Dottie’s door, as well as Peggy’s, whenever she went down for meals – which tended to make her even more irritable with Dottie’s frequent presence.)

Dottie looked predictably crestfallen and hurt by Angie’s sardonic dismissal, and Angie felt as though she had kicked a lost puppy. Then Peggy told them both that she had a headache and was planning an early night, and Angie felt a little like a wounded puppy herself.

Later she stood before Peggy’s door with a bottle of aspirin, and wondered whether she ought to knock and offer the medicine (and whether, if she did, Peggy would be as discouraging as she had been the last time Angie had come to see her when she wanted Peggy to cheer her up). Then suddenly the door was yanked open and Peggy stood in front of her, brandishing a sauce pan.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I saw your shadow under the door.”

Abruptly Angie thrust the aspirin into her hands: “I brought you this.” Then she frowned. “Were you gonna hit me on the head with that pan?”

Peggy laughed awkwardly. “I was about to warm some milk before bed.” She peered out along the empty hallway, before unexpectedly drawing Angie into her room, then closing and locking the door.

“We should probably keep our voices down,” said Peggy softly, “since I told Dottie I was going to bed, but would you like some tea, or something?”

“Sure,” said Angie.

She had not been inside Peggy’s room since the evening they fell out, and she was happy to be invited in, but still mindful that previously she had been too forward and casual in her invasion of Peggy’s private space. She was also conscious of there being something furtive and wary about the way Peggy had checked the corridor outside and then locked herself in, which seemed to go beyond an avoidance of neighbours. This made Angie a little nervous, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “Is your headache better?” she asked politely, sitting down sedately on Peggy’s bed.

“Much, thank you. I’m sorry about before – I was feeling slightly off-colour, and I do think a little of Dottie goes rather a long way,” Peggy put down the sauce pan and picked up her kettle. “Not that she isn’t perfectly nice,” she added hastily.

“I know what you mean,” agreed Angie, feeling pleased that Peggy too sometimes found Dottie’s presence and enthusiasm a little much. “I had a really crappy day, so I wasn’t in the mood for a whole lot’a Iowa corn tonight, either.”

“Quite,” said Peggy amused. She filled the kettle. “What was wrong with your day?” she asked, returning to Angie and sitting down next to her on the day bed.

Angie groaned extravagantly. “Oh, you know, the usual. My voice is wrong and my…” she gestured with her hands in front of her breasts, “are too small, apparently.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s what they said at my audition today.”

“Well, of all the nerve!” exclaimed Peggy indignantly, “If someone said that to _me_ I should _certainly_ hit them on the head with a sauce pan!”

Angie laughed. She flopped back suddenly on the bed, abandoning her earlier caution in the face of Peggy’s ready sympathy. “It’s probably not something anyone would ever say about you,” she remarked unthinkingly, and Peggy’s mouth fell open in surprise.

Hurriedly Angie sat up again. “I just meant you have a really classy voice,” she clarified demurely, although she followed this with a slightly impish grin.

Peggy hit her over the head with a pillow.

*

They spent the evening laughing and talking – Peggy even came close to giggling at times. (Angie knew that she herself giggled plenty.) Peggy also offered to help Angie with her accent for a small role as a French maid in a comedy – which was how Angie discovered that Peggy had been due to embark on a degree in modern languages at Cambridge when the war broke out in ’39. She was conscripted instead for office work, and later she served in some capacity in the military. Angie also learned that Peggy’s brother died in the war, and that Peggy herself had been engaged to be married for a brief time but had broken it off: “Michael never liked him. He was quite right, of course – it would have been disastrous.”

Peggy opened a box of Swiss chocolates, which looked extremely expensive to Angie and tasted better than any chocolate she had ever had before. Peggy explained that a friend who liked to import such things personally had given them to her, and Angie felt a little as she had when Peggy had told Miriam Fry – as though this were an everyday circumstance – that her father was “dear friends” with a senator. Angie had never met any senators, knew no one with a private plane who casually “stopped off in Switzerland during the war,” and had considered her own move to live in an apartment on the Upper East Side by herself the height of daring and adventure. Peggy, it turned out, had spent part of the war in the US, part of it in London and had also been posted to mainland Europe for a time (although she didn’t say where exactly). “Doing what?” asked Angie, trying to imagine being so close to the front line. “Oh, nothing very exciting or glamorous – war work. Mostly typing,” said Peggy, both matter-of-fact and evasive.

Angie told Peggy about being taken by her grandmother to see George Bernard Shaw’s _Pygmalion_ when she was fifteen, and how this had made her want to become an actress. She dreamt of being in ‘real plays,’ she explained, but she didn’t think girls from Brooklyn got to do this very much. Peggy gave her a copy of Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_ to read, told her that Shaw had admired this play, and that Angie would make “a wonderful Nora.” “I don’t think for a moment that being from Brooklyn is incompatible with greatness,” Peggy told her firmly. “I can see you as Nora, Angie – she’s someone who slams the door on all the things other people expect of her, and insists on being her own person instead.”

Angie left Peggy’s room well after curfew, hugging the book to her ( _not_ too small) chest, and feeling as though she were floating on air. She began reading _A Doll’s House_ before she went to sleep that night.

*

The following morning was not a ‘good-breakfast day’: the eggs were powdered, as they often were, and Peggy was once again in a hurry. She stood up just as Angie sat down (“We’ll go over the French-maid lines when I’m home tonight,” she promised hastily), and left Angie to eat toast in the company of an unusually silent Dottie.

Abruptly Dottie stabbed her fork into the nearby bowl of spongy scrambled eggs.

“You all right, Iowa?” asked Angie, frowning.

“Sure, _Brooklyn,_ why wouldn’t I be?” replied Dottie with a too-bright smile. “Did you have fun in Peggy’s room last night?”

Angie felt an awful jolt of guilt. “I just took her some aspirin,” she tried to explain. “We ended up talking for a little while before Peggy went to bed.”

Dottie tilted her head to one side and stared at her intently. “Well, aren’t you sweet?” she replied, her eyes glittering oddly.

Angie looked away, strangely intimidated by the normally innocuous Dottie. She tried to decide what would be the safest thing to say next, casting a furtive, uncertain glance at Dottie under the cover of reaching for another piece of toast. In a viciously quick gesture, Dottie speared both remaining slices with her knife, only just missing Angie’s fingers.

“Hey!” cried Angie, snatching her hand back in alarm.

“Oops!” exclaimed Dottie merrily. “ _Silly me!_ ”

“Jesus, Iowa, _what the hell_?” demanded Angie angrily, only to be met by a quelling reprimand from Miss Fry as she stalked through the dining room on her way to the kitchen.

Dottie wrapped up the toast in a table napkin, and stood up. There was malice and glee in the smile she gave before leaving.

*

Afterwards Dottie behaved towards Angie as if nothing had happened that morning – so much so, that Angie almost persuaded herself that she had somehow imagined the whole thing.

Peggy kept her promise to help Angie with her accent and Angie got the French-maid role.

Soon rehearsals began, Angie changed her shifts at the Automat to accommodate them, and she inevitably spent less time at home than she normally did. Only Peggy and Carol made a point of asking how the show was going, and they seemed entertained by Angie’s stories of eccentric actors and irascible assistant directors. Peggy was full of encouragement of Angie’s achievements and ambitions.

Of course, Angie was not always confident that she _was_ in fact achieving anything, and Peggy soon began to adopt an attitude similar to the one taken by Angie’s grandmother, when it came to hearing doom-laden pronouncements on Angie’s abysmal professional failings. Peggy, like Nana, tended not to take seriously Angie’s declarations that directors thought her auditions the worst they’d ever seen, or her performances the most atrocious in the whole, wide world. The truth was that no one ever said precisely these things to her, but that rejections, or harsh words at rehearsals, made Angie feel as though this was what was meant. Nana and Peggy both understood this, and Peggy alternated between friendly sympathy (“Oh, poor you,”) and gentle scolding (“I’m quite sure he didn’t say _that._ ”) At the same time, when Peggy sensed that Angie’s adversities were real, she was stalwart in her indignation and reassurance.

Recently Peggy’s willingness to come to Angie’s aid had been unexpectedly confirmed by Esther, who worked at the library and was a regular at the Automat. Like Peggy, Esther always tipped generously, and one Tuesday lunchtime, when Angie was bemoaning the rudeness of other customers, Esther comforted her with the observation that at least ‘that big, unpleasant man’ no longer frequented the establishment. Angie’s British friend had well and truly scared him off, declared Esther in a satisfied tone. Angie, puzzled, asked Esther to explain.

“Didn’t she tell you?” replied Esther. “She stuck a fork in Mr Big’nloud’s ribs. I’m pretty sure she threatened to stab him and I think she told him to go eat somewhere else. I was sitting in the corner over by the pastries.”

“She… did what?”

“She threatened him with a fork! I reckon she probably learned that kind of thing in the war.”

“Yeah… I’m not sure they fought the war in Europe with cutlery, Esther,” quipped Angie, mostly to cover up her own private reaction – which was a special, secret kind of pleasure – at the thought of Peggy coming to her defence in this way.

“Maybe not, but women did a lot of things in the war that people never got to hear about,” said Esther wisely, and Angie stored this thought away to contemplate later. (She didn’t know what Peggy had done in the war, but she was beginning to think it had very little to do with typing.)

*

Peggy and Carol went to Angie’s opening night, and afterwards Peggy invited them both to her room, where she opened a bottle of Italian sparkling wine. “I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” she told them, filling each of their glasses to the brim.

Slyly Angie asked whether this was another gift from the friend with the private plane, and Peggy replied evasively that it was “something like that,” before changing the subject back to Angie’s performance. Angie noticed, as she always did when it happened, Peggy’s retreat from personal revelations, but she was also struck by how pleased Peggy seemed that Angie at last had a part in a play (and that her small number of lines had earned some big audience laughs).

Sitting in Peggy’s room again, it occurred to Angie that she had not yet returned Peggy’s copy of Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_. Angie enjoyed rereading it and imagining herself in the leading role, and she also liked to ponder the inscription at the front of the book, which read, “August, 1939. Dear Sir Pegsalot, Go and slay some dragons – and don’t forget to break all the rules! With love from Michael.” This was the summer before the war broke out, when Peggy had been due to start at Cambridge, and Angie wondered whether the book was meant as a ‘going-away’ present for Peggy from her older brother. Angie had never even contemplated going to college – it was not a thing anyone in her family had ever done – and the thought of Peggy gaining a place there was similar to the idea of Peggy as someone whose friends were senators or owned their own planes.

Angie knew that in most respects she and Peggy were worlds apart, and that this was part of the fascination that Peggy held for her. Secretly Angie wished to be more like Peggy, although she also understood that this was a vain hope: Peggy was sophisticated, educated, classy and enigmatic, whereas she, Angie, was a Brooklyn girl who talked too much and always wore her heart on her sleeve (as Nana liked to say). At the same time, she couldn’t help remembering that, in lending her a treasured copy of Ibsen’s play, Peggy had singled her out as kindred spirit – as a woman who could break rules and defy other people’s expectations.

Even though Peggy was still inclined to keep herself to herself, and Angie was still inclined to imagine that she was the worst actress in the world, Peggy Carter was beginning to changed how Angie Martinelli thought and felt. In Peggy’s company, or when Peggy was on her mind, Angie was able to believe that she could achieve more than she had previously imagined – that she really could take on the best and the most difficult roles. She would never be Peggy, but who was to say that she couldn’t play a woman like Peggy from time to time?

It was not until much later that it occurred to Angie that she might actually be capable of changing Peggy Carter in turn…

*


	2. Some People Are Always Acting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie guessed it was bound to be a bit awkward after your friend climbed out of a third-floor window to escape the law, and you indirectly told her how much you were willing to risk for her, by elaborately tricking the Federal Agents who came to arrest her. Then Angie said, “The Feds came lookin’ for my cousin Ralphie once. Turned out he’d fallen in with Tony Crosetti’s crew. You’re not in the Mafia are you, English?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’ve put several weeks between ‘Time and Tide’ and end of ‘The Blitzkrieg Button,’ even though these are episodes three and four respectively. This probably stretches things a bit, given that in ep 4 Sousa is still questioning the men at the dock about the night of Krzeminski’s death, but the season only has eight episodes, squeezes a lot of story into each one, and doesn’t make clear exactly how much time passes. I decided that potentially it could take a little while for Howard to arrange to smuggle himself back into the country, and I wanted to give an opportunity for things to happen in Angie’s life (like her role in a comedy). I also wanted to give the sense of Peggy and Angie having lived next door to each other for a little while before the events of ‘A Sin to Err.’ 
> 
> Just for the fun of it, I’ve included here an explanation for the discrepancy of Angie saying “3C if you need a cup of sugar,” in ‘Bridge and Tunnel’ and the really conspicuous ‘3D’ on her apartment door when Sousa & Thompson question her in ‘A Sin a Err.’ (Also in writing this fic, I have probably spent a ridiculously large amount of time rewatching the Griffith scenes, trying to get a sense of the exact layout and location of this imaginary establishment – the non-studio/ non-CGI elements of which are actually to be found in Los Angeles anyway!)

Angie Martinelli knew that Peggy Carter regularly broke the 10pm curfew at the Griffith Hotel for Women.

Before Peggy moved in, Angie had told her that they would be living next door to each other. In fact, this was a combination of verbal laziness and wishful thinking on Angie’s part, because Peggy moved into 3E, the apartment vacated by ‘crying Sally’ when she moved back home to her mom’s, whilst Angie lived two doors down in 3C. Evelyn lived in 3D, the much-coveted corner apartment between the two. The ‘C’ apartments on every floor were the smallest in the building; they faced out onto the fire escape of a neighbouring building, and were located closest to the stairs and next to the dumbwaiter. At first Angie had welcomed her room’s modest rent, but increasingly she felt cheated of the space, light and views enjoyed by the girls in many of the other apartments: if it hadn’t been for the perfect timing of Peggy looking for a new place just as Sally moved out, Angie would have been tempted to ask Miss Fry if she could move into 3E herself.

But Angie’s grandmother had always told her that virtue would be rewarded in the end, and Angie’s sacrifice of the room she described to Peggy as “paradise” was in fact repaid just ten days later, when Miss Fry informed Evelyn that she could no longer tolerate her continual curfew-breaking and that she would have to move out. Evelyn went to live at her sister’s, and Angie asked Miss Fry whether she could move into 3D. (It turned out that Sarah Simpson actually asked first, but since a string of unsuitable young men called for Sarah at the front desk – and since Angie was visited mostly by her affectionate, fretful mother – Miriam Fry took self-evident pleasure in awarding the prize to the more deserving applicant.)

So Angie ended up next door to Peggy after all, and also in one of the more desirable apartments the Griffith had to offer. Pleased with her room, she developed a nightly habit of taking a last, bedtime look at her newly acquired view (you could even see the Chrysler Building, if you leaned out a little), and she would sometimes notice that Peggy was (as Angie’s Nana liked to call it) ‘burning the midnight oil.’ Of course, sometimes Peggy’s window would be dark, but on those occasions Angie would often hear her door opening and shutting in the early hours of the morning.

On the night that Angie had suggested they eat pie and drink schnapps and Peggy had transparently brushed her off, Angie had been upset – as well as suffering from pie-induced indigestion – which meant that she was lying awake at 4am. When she heard faint noises in the corridor outside, she was up and out of bed in time to crack open her door and spy Peggy – dressed in a dirty coverall, and with her hair tumbling out of a ponytail – slipping furtively back into her apartment. _So much for bed at eight o’clock_ , thought Angie, hurt and anger mounting once again. Yet at least she now knew that Peggy had refused her for a reason – not that Angie could imagine what the reason might be, given how Peggy was dressed. (The next evening, when Peggy came to the Automat holding back tears over the death of her colleague, all remaining resentment died before it even reached Angie’s lips – they went home together and drank the schnapps.)

Some weeks later (after Angie was given a temporary curfew-dispensation because of the French-maid play), she arrived home at 11.30pm and noticed Peggy ahead of her on the other side of the street as she approached the Griffith. Peggy was walking slowly and seemed deep in thought; she was also wearing a short-sleeved dress and was without a pocketbook, or even a coat, having apparently gone out in a hurry with no thought to the cold, night air. Angie was worried for her – and then a little taken aback by Peggy’s routine manner as she headed to the Griffith alleyway and calmly climbed into the building through the coal chute. (Angie felt a pang of rueful sympathy for Evelyn, who had quit secretary school to become a lounge singer, but had not kept the habitual, erratic hours that Peggy clearly did. Of course, Evelyn had also not spent nearly as much time in the company of men as did either Helen or Sarah, but Miss Fry seemed convinced that Evelyn’s new profession meant that she was also a fallen woman, seduced by the immoral ‘rakes’ who surely frequented midtown night clubs. As Angie wondered what it was that Peggy got up to on her late-night outings, she reflected that it was highly unlikely to be anything that would meet with Miss Fry’s approval.)

It was the morning after this that Angie also started to think seriously about whether Peggy’s secrets, whatever they were, were taking a toll on her: at breakfast she looked pale, tired and even a little haunted. Angie took pity, and poured her a cup of tea when she showed no signs of helping herself.

“Late night last night?” Vera asked Peggy cheerfully.

“No, not especially,” responded Peggy blandly, “I just didn’t sleep awfully well.”

Carol, who had served in the Army Nurse Corps in Burma in 1944, said unexpectedly and gently, “Bad dreams, huh? I get those sometimes – about the war and the injuries and things, you know?”

Peggy’s gaze went blank momentarily, and Angie noticed that she briefly clenched her hand before pushing at her perfectly curled hair.

“Please, we’re _eating_!” protested Helen (who had spent the war at home in New England, helping with her mother’s fund-raising efforts for ‘our boys.’) “Hey Peggy, is your ‘cousin’ still around?”

“What cousin?” asked Angie, confused.

“A distant cousin stopped by the other day, but he’s gone now,” said Peggy dismissively. Before either Angie or Helen could ask any more, Peggy turned her attention to Carol: “Yes, bad dreams can be most unpleasant,” she agreed. Her tone was neutral and understated, but she looked straight at Carol as she spoke, and something silent, knowing and sympathetic seemed to pass between them.

Esther from the library had said that women did all kinds of things in the war that people didn’t know about, and Angie suddenly felt young, ignorant, and stupidly inexperienced next to Carol and Peggy. Peggy’s strange night-errands, and even her mystery cousin, paled in comparison to the possibility that she was hiding some kind of silent suffering, and Angie wanted to say something caring and comforting to both of her friends, only she didn’t know what or how.

That weekend Angie went to the bakery on Maddison Avenue that Nana always said sold the best Florentines, and brought a box around to Peggy’s room. “It’s _cookies_ – you don’t need an occasion for cookies,” she said brightly, in answer to Peggy’s question, and Peggy laughed, thanked her and invited her in. Angie’s intention had been to provide an opportunity for Peggy to confide in her, but as they worked their way through the box, Peggy instead wanted to hear all about what it was like to grow up in Brooklyn. Angie (who always had stories about her brothers and cousins at the ready) chatted in the amicable, accelerated way that usually made her father ask if she could do him a favour and breath anytime soon. But she was not oblivious to Peggy’s lingering, quiet melancholy, and she broke off after a while to ask gently, “Is somethin’ wrong, Peg?”

“Oh…. no, I’m fine. I er – I met some Brooklyn boys during the war,” said Peggy a little disjointedly. Then she added more cheerfully, “These biscuits are heaven, by the way. Tell me more about going to Coney Island when you were a child.” So Angie reminisced, whilst Peggy listened and asked a question from time to time. She curled up on the bed, drew a patchwork quilt over both of them, and smiled as Angie talked animatedly until it was time for her to go to the theatre.

*

Angie came down for dinner one evening to find that Peggy had left the country.

Angie herself had taken a sick day from the Automat, though she knew she wasn’t really ill. But she was tired and despondent because the play was finished and now everything would be going back to normal – and normal meant that she was more waitress than actress again, as opposed to the other way round.

All Miriam Fry could tell her was that Peggy had called the Griffith from the phone company to say that there was a family emergency. When Angie asked, startled, whether this meant that Peggy had gone all the way to _England_ , Miss Fry gave a disapproving sniff and replied in a light-lipped manner, “I presume so.” That night Angie went to bed feeling unsettled and a little lonely all of a sudden.

In the morning she came across Dottie standing in front the door to 3E, and she reminded her slightly irritably that Peggy wasn’t home just now. Dottie exclaimed that she had forgotten, and then added with her customary, wide-eyed earnestness, “Gosh, I sure hope she’s okay.” She returned to her room, but Angie remained where she was, staring at Peggy’s door. Dottie hadn’t seemed about to knock, and she had looked furtive and annoyed when Angie had spotted her. Angie almost had the impression that she had been about to break in, but this was surely ridiculous…

“Do you think Dottie’s a little weird sometimes?” Angie asked Carol that evening, when they were in the laundry room waiting for the Griffith’s brand new dryer to finish its cycle.

“Weird how?” asked Carol, waving a bag of lemon drops under Angie’s nose.

Angie took one of the proffered candies. “Thanks. I dunno… weird like a little crazy, maybe? Like a while back, she was mad at me, and it seemed like she wanted to chop my fingers off with a knife.”

“She had a knife?”

“Well, not a _knife_ knife. It was probably nothing. It just kinda seemed like she had a screw loose, or somethin’.”

Carol looked doubtful as well as amused. “I can’t really see Dottie chopping off anyone’s fingers. She’s probably scared of blood. Now your friend _Peggy_ , on the other hand…”

“Why do you say that?” asked Angie quickly, thinking of the fork-in-the-ribs incident.

“I’m kidding,” said Carol laughing. “I just meant that there are deep waters with Peggy, you know? I don’t know about Dottie – not to be mean, but I don’t think there’s much… well, I wouldn’t call her a deep person. She’s kinda homespun: like how she’s _so amazed_ by the _subway_! And I guess they don’t have subways in Iowa, but just the same: she’s amazed _every time?”_

Angie laughed, relieved that even Carol was not always capable of charity when it came to Dottie. (Carol worked long hours at Lenox Hill Hospital, which meant that Angie tended to think of her as the embodiment of saintly selflessness.) “Yeah. Peggy reckons that a little of Dottie goes a long way,” she offered.

“That’s for sure,” agreed Carol. “I don’t think I ever met anyone else who’s that _wholesome.”_

At that moment they were interrupted by Sarah, who emerged with a gentleman friend from the walk-in closet where towels and bedding were stored. (The stipulation that no men were allowed above the first floor was Miss Fry’s most sacred, stringent house-rule, and Sarah seemed to take a particular pleasure in bending it, by regularly misusing the basement rooms.) But Angie came back to Carol’s words partway through her next shift at the Automat, when she was struck with a sudden, sharp realisation of what it was that bothered her the most about Dottie: it wasn’t that Angie found Mid-West-wholesomeness annoying; rather it was that Dottie’s particular kind of Mid-West-wholesomeness often seemed to be too good to be true. And maybe Angie’s auditions weren’t always the best in world, but deep down she knew that they were never the worst: she knew about acting, and when Dottie smiled and exclaimed and opened her eyes as wide as dinner plates, what Angie felt above all was that Dottie was pretending. Dottie – like Angie – was an _actress_. 

Angie wondered for a while about whether to talk to Peggy about this, but she wasn’t sure how to put her instincts about Dottie into words. In fact, Dottie’s sudden flashes of peculiar spite in the midst of her bright-eyed innocence had the effect of making Angie doubt herself every bit as much as she doubted Dottie...

*

Angie was experiencing a lot of self-doubt just lately. She had wanted to prolong the exhilaration of being on a professional stage, and in the last two weeks of the French-maid comedy, she went to six auditions in quick succession – and was rejected six times in succession as a result. Peggy had inspired her to have greater faith in herself, but this was difficult to maintain in the face of so much discouragement from other people, and Angie was feeling increasingly disheartened and depressed.

When Peggy came back she explained briefly that her mother had been in an accident, but that it was not as bad as they had first feared – she was making a good recovery. Angie was full of sympathetic concern, although on reflection she realised that the incident puzzled her as much as everything else did about Peggy: the trip to England seemed a very long way to go for an accident which was not life-threatening, whilst Peggy’s stay also seemed very short given that she had decided to go in the first place. But then again, Angie had no idea how she would react herself if her own mother were in a car crash, and whilst Peggy was older than Angie – and exuded an adult worldliness and independence that made her seem older still – there was no reason to assume that she didn’t still sometimes miss her mom and just want to go home. (This happened to Angie every once in a while, and her entire family was only over the bridge in Brooklyn, rather than all the way on the other side of the Atlantic).

The day after Peggy returned, Angie headed up to the third floor to find that 3E really was being broken into – or rather, that Peggy had just at that moment successfully picked the lock to her own room. She confessed to having lost her key, and to feeling reluctant to ask Miriam for another: “I don’t think Miss Fry likes me very much,” explained Peggy sheepishly.

“Maybe it’s because you know how to pick hotel locks, English,” quipped Angie wryly. Then she caught sight of the lock-picking tool that Peggy was holding, which looked improbably specialist in the hands of a woman who worked at the phone company. It was another of those circumstances which cast Peggy in a highly dubious light, but it didn’t so much awaken Angie’s suspicion as make her think of Esther and the story of the fork.

“Peggy,” asked Angie seriously, “did you learn how to do that during the war?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Peggy, as she noticed Angie noticing the tool in her hand. She made as if to hide it, but then stopped. “Yes. Yes, I did,” she said simply.

“So, I guess you weren’t really much of a typist, huh?”

“Well… I _can_ type,” offered Peggy, and Angie smiled, pleased to have encouraged Peggy into even the smallest of admissions. In addition, the idea of clever, confident, lock-picking Peggy misplacing her key, and being scared to face Miriam, comforted Angie in the midst of her own lost confidence after her run of failed auditions. She found herself not only volunteering to speak to Miss Fry on Peggy’s behalf, but also confessing to a weakness of her own. The Cherry Tree Theatre in Lafayette Street had recently put out a casting call for Ibsen’s _A Doll’s House_ and Angie wanted the part of Nora badly, but also wanted to run away from the very idea of it. (She knew that rejection at this would hurt so much more than the six previous times.)

“It’s kind of an intellectual-type theatre – I don’t think they’re really lookin’ for girls like me,” she told Peggy. She pulled a face as she said this, as if it were mostly a thing to laugh about, but Peggy wasn’t fooled.

“Angie, darling, there is no reason to suppose that you don’t have a very good chance at this. But just because you might not get it, that’s also not a reason not to try for it. God knows, I know it’s frustrating to feel that there are people who make assumptions about you based on their own shortcomings, but you won’t ever persuade anyone to think differently if you don’t show up at all. You are _always_ better than the people who try to denigrate you.”

“Yeah,” said Angie wryly, “it’s just that those are the people who always seem to cast the plays I try out for here in New York.”

“Yes, I know how you feel,” said Peggy, in a tone of rueful sympathy. “But you said yourself that we all have to pay our dues. Do the audition – you will be wonderful.”

*

So Angie did the audition.

She went to the Cherry Tree Theatre on Lafayette Street – and never felt more like Shaw’s Eliza Doolittle than when she listened to the fancy words and voices which floated around her whilst she waited her turn. When at last the time came, the director barely even looked at her and he turned to talk to someone behind him just as she spoke her first words. She was supposed to be Nora, finally breaking free from the husband and father who had treated her like a plaything all her life, but the men in front of her were so heedless that they barely even accorded her the status of doll – she might as well have not shown up at all.

Angie stuttered, stopped, and found that she could no longer remember the next line. “Sweetheart, if you don’t know the play, then don’t waste my time,” said the director dismissively when he noticed her silence. “Next!”

Later she would feel rage at herself for not reaching her own Nora-epiphany quick enough, for not telling the director that she knew and understood the play one hell of a lot better than he did, that _he_ had never been a woman, dismissed and treated as nothing by ignorant men who could not even begin to comprehend the injustices done to her, and millions of women like her: _she_ was a Nora, and if _he_ was anyone at all, then he was one of the Torvalds of this world.

Instead she ran off the stage, bereft, humiliated, and desperate to remove herself from this place where she had been a fool to think she could ever belong. Backstage she paused for a moment, trying to get her bearings and work out the quickest, emptiest way to the outside of the building.

A stocky, dark-haired technician stopped adjusting a light and sauntered over to her. “You were actually pretty good, kid,” he offered, and Angie was startled to realise that ‘he’ was actually a she – a short, young woman wearing frayed black pants and a streak of dirt across the freckles on one cheek, whose hair was piled up under a flat, black cap. “I’m Lou Blumberg,” offered the woman, holding out her hand.

“Angie Martinelli,” mumbled Angie, still looking around furtively for the nearest escape route.

“Nice to meet you, Angie. Don’t let Larry get you down – he’s kind of an ass,” Lou offered helpfully. “He always thinks he knows better than everyone else, which usually means he doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it.” Lou took hold of Angie’s arm and guided her gently towards a door. “Hey kid, if you ever fancy goin’ someplace a little different, where there’s no chance of meeting any ‘Larrys’… this is a bar where me and my friends sometimes meet.” She thrust a card into Angie’s hand and Angie looked down and read the word ‘Eve’s’ printed in flamboyant colours.

“Um… thanks,” said Angie, still mostly interested in beating a hasty retreat.

“No problem, ‘Nora,’” said Lou, grinning at her. “Hope to see you there.”

Angie suspected that ‘Eve’s’ might not be the kind of place her mother would like her to visit. But she put the card in her purse anyway, and made her way to the Automat.

*

She had failed yet another audition: it was inescapably time to be only-waitress again, and Angie slammed and crashed her way through serving customers and waiting tables that day, angry at the world and at herself.

Partway through her shift ‘Mr Fancy’ came in and asked after Peggy. For some reason he sounded nervous, and he looked disappointed and worried when Angie said that she wasn’t expecting Peggy to stop by. Angie was still inclined to be suspicious of this married ‘colleague,’ who always spoke to Peggy with his back to her, like they were planning a heist in a movie. In her current frame of mind, Angie was tempted to snap out something rude and sarcastic (“Yeah, she’s right over there, mister – you probably didn’t recognise her since you never actually look at her,”); but she was also feeling as if she had somehow let Peggy down, by not proving a good enough Nora, and she was conscious of an unexpected affinity with Mr Fancy as a result. She answered him politely, and when he looked as if he were even more unhappy than Angie was – and when he courteously gave his order and actually called her ‘Miss Martinelli’ – she impulsively piled some extra slices of bacon onto his plate in a bid to cheer him up. He left a very large tip when he got up to go, as if he too recognised that they were united in dejection and misery.

Angie downplayed the audition that night (“It was okay, but obviously I didn't get it. It’s not like I was expecting to anyway,”), and Peggy commiserated, but was on her way out when they spoke (“We’ll talk more later, Angie, I promise.”)

“You tried out for a play by _Ibsen_?” asked Helen, who was eavesdropping in the lobby. There was a note of incredulity in her voice that Angie didn’t want to dig into any further. She decided to eat in her room that night.

*

The following day, one thing seemed to go wrong after another: she found that she had stretched her favourite, blue cardigan in the dryer, she dropped and smashed a pile of plates in the middle of the Automat, and – with Peggy not yet home and Carol on a nightshift – she ended up stuck with Dottie over dinner (who seemed weirdly smug as she remarked on how Peggy sure was awful busy these days). Angie felt friendless and like she was under attack from all sides, and she decided to go to the Griffith lobby and call home: her mom and dad, her Great Aunt Sophia and her grandmother all lived in the same tenement building, and if she were lucky she might even get to talk to Nana on the one phone shared by all the different households.

“Dad,” said Angie weakly, fifteen minutes later, after listening to her father’s concerns about her life, and his thoughts on the benefits of secretary school. “I really just called to talk to Nana. Can you maybe go get her for me?”

“Nana’s the one who put all these daydreams about the theatre in your head in the first place,” her father pointed out, “and she’s in bed right now.”

“Why is she in bed already? Is she _sick_?” asked Angie fearfully.

“No, she’s not sick. She’s just _old_ – she gets tired. Look, Angie, we said give it a year. And it’s been a year. And if you’re gonna live in the city, away from your mother and brothers and me, you may as well be doing something useful with your time.”

“But I am doing something useful, Dad,” protested Angie. “I was just in play.”

“A small part,” dismissed her father, “and it only ran for a few weeks. How much did you even make, anyway?”

“It’s not about the money,” explained Angie futilely. (They had had this discussion before, and her father had never been able to make sense of this particular argument.)

“Angel-cakes,” said Dad painstakingly, as if Angie weren’t actually a grown woman living in an apartment on the Upper East Side. “People like us don’t make enough money for it to be ‘not about the money.’ Give secretary school a try: it was good enough for your cousin, Bianca. And if she hadn’t gone to school and gotten a real job, she never would’ve met Vinnie, and he’s a pretty big player these days down at that insurance firm.”

Dad was more impressed by her cousin’s husband’s job than by any achievements that were Angie’s own, and Larry hadn’t listened whilst she played a woman finally voicing her anger at being disregarded. Possibly it was the perversity of these disappointments that led her the next day to give the performance she wished she could have given at her audition, right in the middle of the Automat. Esther applauded – and Peggy told her that she was wonderful.

But Angie still didn’t have quite enough courage to confess there and then exactly how she had let herself be walked over at the Cherry Tree Theatre. Instead she fell back on familiar exaggeration about how the producers had said that Angie was the worst they’d ever seen and Peggy had heard all this before. She didn’t take Angie seriously until she mentioned her father’s plan for her to go to secretary school: “You belong on stage!” objected Peggy, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. Then Mr Fancy arrived and Peggy promised once again that they would talk later. “Nothing to say,” replied Angie, suddenly perversely determined to side with her father against herself.

In the kitchen Pete, the cook, grumbled at her for always yakking with the customers, but her shift was ending and she ignored him. She rolled her eyes as she left, when she saw Peggy and Mr Fancy deep in conversation whilst sitting back-to-back. However, at least Mr Fancy had finally gotten to catch up with Peggy – she hoped this would lift his spirits, even if there wasn’t much to be done about lifting her own.

*

Federal Agents were looking for Peggy – Peggy, who picked locks, threatened men with cutlery, kept heist-movie rendezvous at the Automat, and always broke the Griffith curfew; Peggy, who right now was hiding on a nine-inch ledge just outside Angie’s third-storey window.

“I suggest you take them seriously, Miss Martinelli,” said Miriam Fry severely, as men marched into Angie’s room and picked up the photographs on her dresser as if they had every right. (Angie supposed they probably did have the right, since they were Federal Agents.) “ _Miss Carter_ is _not_ who she appears to be,” declared Miss Fry.

Perhaps it was strange that Angie chose to help Peggy in that moment, when she could hardly have looked guiltier in her desperate measures to avoid being caught. But Angie had always been led by her feelings, and just as she instinctively distrusted Dottie, she also instinctively felt loyal to Peggy in the face of such extremity. (“There are bad people in this world,” Nana once told her, “and then there are people who have a light around them, and you simply know they’re on the side of the angels.” Perhaps the truth was that Angie had seen the light around Peggy almost from the first time she laid eyes on her.)

So Angie told the Feds that Peggy had gone away: “I think it had something to do with her sick grandmother…” and then she began to cry.

Maybe it wasn’t the very best performance in the world, but Angie knew it was pretty damn good. It fooled Miriam Fry, and it certainly fooled the Agent who had been heading for the window. He squirmed in embarrassment and patted her awkwardly, as Angie sobbed into his tie and told him all about her grandmother, and about the sorrows of pursuing a career in acting. She borrowed lines from Nora (she was “living hand-to-mouth,” she told him tragically), and she gave Peggy’s lines to Nana in her lovely, little melodrama (“She says, ‘You belong on stage, angel,’”); and soon the men could not wait to escape her room, and the excruciating horror of her helpless hysteria. (“Actors wear their emotions close to the surface,” explained Miriam expertly, and she compared Angie to Laurence Olivier.)

Angie would have been thrilled by her own success, if she hadn’t been terrified the whole time that Peggy was about to plummet to her death outside the window. As soon as she got rid of the men and Miriam, she hurried to help Peggy climb into her room. Peggy was grateful and impressed, but Angie could only exclaim in vindication over a suspicion that had been in the back of her mind for months: “I _knew_ you didn’t work at the phone company!”

Peggy gave her a sheepish, confessional grimace in reply.

*

For a time Angie and Peggy stood in silence and stared at each other.

Angie guessed it was bound to be a bit awkward after your friend climbed out of a third-floor window to escape the law, and you indirectly told her how much you were willing to risk for her, by elaborately tricking the Federal Agents who came to arrest her. Then Angie said, “The Feds came lookin’ for my cousin Ralphie once. Turned out he’d fallen in with Tony Crosetti’s crew. You’re not in the Mafia are you, English?”

“No,” said Peggy smiling slightly.

“Okay, that’s good – because after what happened with Ralphie, my dad said he’d disown any of us if we ever got involved with the mob.”

“Angie, I’m afraid I can’t tell you what this is about,” said Peggy gravely.

“I know. I know you have your secrets. Just so long as you’re not in the Mafia.” Then she added jestingly, “Or like a Russian spy, or somethin’.”

Angie knew about acting, and she knew that Peggy’s amused smile came fractionally too late to be real this time. “Peggy?” said Angie carefully. “ _Are you a Russian spy_?”

“No, Angie,” said Peggy sincerely. “I promise you that I am not a Russian spy.”

Angie nodded. “But do those men _think_ you’re a Russian spy?”

“It’s possible they believe something of that kind, yes.”

“And you can’t tell me why they think that?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Just then they heard voices and doors slamming elsewhere in the building, and Angie – revisited by terror over Peggy’s safety – caught hold of her hand and said, “There probably isn’t time right now anyway. Look, my brother, Bruno, runs an auto-shop. I reckon he could lend you a car. Would that help?”

Peggy’s grip was a little shaky, but her voice was steady and determined when she replied, “It would help enormously. Thank you.”

*

Angie went to phone Bruno – and whilst she was at it, she told her father exactly what she thought of secretary school. Then she told Peggy what she had said to her father, and Peggy was pleased for her: “You’re an amazing actress!” she declared, and given that Peggy had been pretending to all of them for months, Angie told Peggy that she wasn’t so bad herself!

And then it hit Angie that Peggy was leaving, and that since she was running away, she probably wasn’t coming back any time soon. So when Angie told her that she “looked forward to hearing what all this was about someday,” what she really meant was that she wanted Peggy to tell her that they would see each other again – that this was not goodbye forever. But of course Peggy couldn’t give her any reassurances, beyond reaching for Angie and hugging her tightly.

Then she headed for the door to Angie’s apartment and was gone...

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t want to saddle a real New York theatrical establishment with a director like Larry, so I made up the Cherry Tree Theatre (although there is a Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village.)


	3. Alone in the Interval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment Angie sat very still and stared at these words. Then she jumped up and went to open Peggy’s jewellery box.
> 
> And some of the pieces of the puzzle that was Peggy Carter seemed to shift and fall into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I was having trouble with this chapter and decided that it was getting a bit long and unwieldy. So I am splitting it in two, and am making this a four-chapter fic.
> 
> 2\. The pace of this chapter is slower than the last two, in that it plays out over just four days – from 6th - 9th May 1946. (If you’re interested, I’ve worked out the timescale as follows: from the start of ‘A Sin to Err’ to the end of ‘Valediction’ we actually only see night fall twice – after Midnight Oil is released in the cinema and as Howard is flying the plane. Since this puts a lot of story on the first day, I decided that Peggy’s arrest takes place in the late afternoon/ early evening of 6 May. Thompson, Sousa and Dooley then question her into the night and continue the next day, so that night falls between episodes 6 & 7\. Jarvis brings in the forged confession on 7 May and Dooley’s death and the cinema tragedy also take place on 7th. Howard [who probably never left the country after ‘The Blitzkrieg Button’] turns up in the early hours of 8 May, gives his press conference in the afternoon, and flies the plane in the evening [as the VE Day celebrations take place]. This means that episodes 6, 7 & 8 take place on three separate, consecutive days – which gives enough time to squeeze all the events into the story’s fictional time, whilst also retaining the series’ urgent feel of everything escalating towards an unstoppable catastrophe [which of course Peggy averts!] Btw, I only really noticed whilst writing this story that the Agent Carter ‘Pilot’ doesn’t have the ‘One year later’ intertitle that the AC ‘One Shot’ does – it just says ‘New York City 1946.’ Presumably then Steve has been missing for less than a year when the season starts [?], if it ends as early in the year as 8 May [VE Day]. Or else, the entire first season takes place in the 1946 equivalent of CA:TFA’s 1945, scene-transition fade-to-black between the Valkyrie crashing and the VE day celebrations in Trafalgar Square [?]. Anyway, a lot happens in a short space of time!)
> 
> 3\. Obviously, during the Second World War you couldn’t send letters to ‘Agent Name-of-top-secret-spy at Name-of-top-secret-spy-organisation,’ so I’ve given Peggy an alias, and an address which Steve Rogers used when he wrote to her. The alias is a tribute to showrunners Tara Butters and Michele Fazekas, whilst the Westminster Wireless Company is intended as a cover for the SSR, in the same way that the New York Bell Company serves as a cover. The Westminster Wireless Company’s address is in Baker Street, because this was where the Special Operations Executive’s London headquarters was. The SOE moved to 64 Baker Street in October 1940, and ended up occupying a lot of houses on the street. (I love that the SOE was located on the street where Sherlock Holmes supposedly lived – it was sometimes nicknamed the ‘Baker Street Irregulars,’ after Holmes’s London-urchin intelligence sources.) I decided that maybe the SOE had a building it loaned out to its ally, the SSR, and I went with 364 because so far as I can tell, the street numbers don’t go this high in real life. (My apologies to today’s Baker Street residents, if I have got this wrong and have inadvertently commandeered your home for urgent, wartime spy business!)

The Griffith Hotel for Women was in uproar: Peggy Carter had been arrested and marched through the lobby in handcuffs and disgrace, whilst Dottie Underwood had disappeared.

“She is in arrears on her rent _,”_ remonstrated Miriam Fry, when Angie brought the news that Dottie’s room was empty, her door unlocked and that all of her possessions were gone. To add insult to Miss Fry’s injury, the government agents who came to capture Peggy were all men, and they had _penetrated every floor of the building._

In the evening of the day these outrages took place, Miss Fry ordered all residents to assemble in the dining room. Angie, who usually surreptitiously eye-rolled her way through ‘old Miriam’s’ speeches, listened to her preaching and proclamations in silent misery, the memory of Peggy – handcuffed, and looking oddly dazed and unwell – drowning out all other considerations.

“This city is full of vice. It is fraught with danger for innocent, young ladies,” declared Miss Fry portentously. “As landlady of this establishment, it has always been my duty to warn you of the perils that lie beyond these walls, and today we learned that immorality has found its way into our very midst. We have been _grievously betrayed,_ and I say to you _all_ ,” (here she looked directly at Angie) “ _choose your friends wisely._ But we have cast the miscreant out,” (here Miss Fry pointed a quivering finger at the door), “and we shall continue to resist those who seek to tempt us. Ladies,” (she shook her fist at the empty air) “we _shall prevail_!”

“Hallelujah!” whispered Sarah mockingly. Angie frowned, mostly to prevent herself from crying.

“Miss Underwood’s infraction will be reported to the authorities,” continued Miss Fry in a calmer tone. “As for _Miss Carter,_ ” (her voice dripped disdain) “needless to say, she will be evicted immediately. She is, in any case, now in the hands of the law, and I have no doubt that justice will be meted out for the crimes she has committed.”

This highly unfair speech roused Angie from dejection: she had not spoken up at the Cherry Tree Theatre, but she would not remain silent a second time. “You don’t know she even did anything,” she protested indignantly. “And she _didn’t._ ”

“ _Miss Martinelli!”_ exclaimed Miss Fry angrily. Then she caught sight of the tears that were threatening to spill onto Angie’s cheeks. Her demeanour softened. “Miss Martinelli, your loyalty does you credit, but I fear it is sadly misplaced in this instance.”

Carol raised her hand. She had recently been promoted to senior nurse, was very much accustomed to dealing with difficult situations and people, and she was not nearly as intimidated by Miriam Fry as were many of the other Griffith tenants. “Miss Fry, what are you planning to do with Peggy’s things, if you’re evicting her when she’s not even here? Legally they still belong to her.”

“I hardly think that is any concern of yours, Miss Garcia,” said Miriam reprovingly. “And Miss Carter should have thought of _that_ before she defaced the wall of her room.”

But Angie caught the gist of Carol’s point quickly. “If you get rid of her stuff it’d be like stealing, and I bet Peggy’s family knows lots of fancy lawyers,” she observed slyly.

Miss Fry faltered – Angie suspected that she was remembering how Peggy’s father was apparently ‘dear friends’ with Senator Palmer, who had supplied Peggy with an impeccable reference before she moved into the Griffith.

“Very well, Miss Martinelli,” she conceded magnanimously. “You may pack Miss Carter’s things and store them in your room, if you feel that is the right thing to do.”

*

Carol offered to help Angie clear Peggy’s apartment, but Angie said she could manage on her own. She felt protective of Peggy’s privacy, and if tonight were to be the last night that Peggy’s room was Peggy’s room, she wanted time in it without the distracting necessity of making small talk with anyone else (even someone as kind and considerate as Carol).

The pang of guilt Angie experienced, on being herself an intruder amongst Peggy’s things, was quickly superseded by fierce indignation at the assault on Peggy’s home perpetuated by the federal agents, who had kicked in the door and turned out the drawers of the dresser onto the bed. Angie’s outrage that the men had dared to root through Peggy’s lingerie was a little assuaged by the realisation that one of of the dresser drawers had a false bottom to it. Nana had a piece of furniture like this too, where she kept her jewellery and the silver christening cup that had belonged to her own grandmother, and Angie wondered what precious things Peggy had chosen to safeguard here.

Then she peered into the hole Peggy had smashed into her bedroom wall, where a picture of three girls, a violin and a piano normally hung. (The picture, like the furniture, came with the room, but Peggy was the kind of person who knew about cultured things, and she had said it was a print of a famous painting by the artist Renoir – ‘The Daughters of…’ somebody-or-other French-sounding that Angie could no longer remember. A similar print also hung in Angie’s room, and an identical one hung in Mary Horowitz’s, on the second floor.) Peggy had made herself a makeshift safe, Angie realised, as she took in the picture and three loose bricks now stacked beside the bedside lamp. She puzzled over what it was that Peggy had needed to keep so well hidden that she couldn’t even trust the secret compartment in the dresser drawer.

The Feds had presumably taken this important item with them. They had planned to take everything Peggy owned – and had begun bagging up Peggy’s life like it was all a punch of dirty postcards they wanted to ogle in private – but then they had found Peggy herself. After the officers in charge bundled Peggy into a car and left, Miss Fry – reacting strongly to the indignity of having been briefly shut into her own office – exerted the full force of her authority over the flunkies who had been left behind. She told them in no uncertain terms that the Griffith was the most respectable boarding house in the whole of New York, that her father (God rest his soul) had bought the hotel in 1899, that her mother (God rest _her_ soul) had run it as an establishment exclusively for women since 1918, and that gentlemen – let alone men with their appalling lack of manners – were not permitted or welcome above the first floor.

“Look, lady, we got our orders,” replied one of the flunky-Feds ineffectively.

“And disgraceful orders they are too,” declared Miriam, looking pointedly at the cream, satin nightgown he was clutching in his hand. (The flunky blushed as red as a tomato and dropped the nightie like it was burning his hand.)

Angie, watching this exchange through the open doorway to Peggy’s apartment, suppressed a slightly hysterical urge to giggle – or to hug Miriam as she told the Feds that she knew the Fourth Amendment, and if they wished to search her premises any longer then they must return with a warrant signed by a judge. The Feds left, and Angie remained deeply impressed by Miriam’s assertiveness right up until the moment in the dining room when Miss Fry began asserting falsely and publicly that Peggy was a shameful, undeserving criminal.

*

In Peggy’s room Angie gathered up the nightie and underthings with delicate reverence, as if trying to atone for the affront done to them by the agents’ invasive manhandling. She retrieved a suitcase from the closet and packed what would fit of Peggy’s clothes into it.

There were some books on the topmost shelf above the crockery, but she knew from the evening that Peggy had lent her _A Doll’s House_ , that Peggy also kept wooden crates full of books under the bed, all with their spines facing up so you could easily read the titles. (“Kinda like a horizontal library,” Angie had observed appreciatively, and Peggy had smiled up at her from where she was bent down on the floor, retrieving the Ibsen play.) Angie now hauled these crates out, added the remaining books from the shelf, and took each crate, one at a time, into her room, stacking them on top of one another in the corner near her bed. She wrapped up Peggy’s china tea set in some table linen from one of the drawers and placed it, along with plates, bowls, cutlery, the sauce pan, the kettle and some tins and packets of food, in an empty crate from Peggy’s closet, and took this into her own room to join the books.

Then she contemplated the remaining clothes: smart jackets, skirts and trousers; hats and shoes stored in their boxes; elegant, well-cut ‘frocks’ (as Peggy called them); and a number of outright glamorous dresses, that looked like things a movie star might own (and that Angie knew she had never seen Peggy wear.) Angie dragged the trunk, which she and Peggy had transported to the third floor using the dumbwaiter, out of the closet and then discovered that it was locked.

She hunted for the key for a while amongst the lipsticks, powders, perfumes and trinkets on the bedroom vanity, and then decided to pack these items, when it became clear that the key was not amongst them. Unlike in Angie’s room, there were no framed photographs of family on display, but there was an unframed picture propped against the mirror, of a skinny, blonde boy wearing a white T-shirt and military dog tags. (Angie had noticed it before, but had never had quite enough courage to ask about it). She took up the photograph now, reflecting that a gust of wind could probably knock this kid down, let alone an enemy soldier. (There was a writing on the back of the picture – ‘Steve at CL in ’43’ – which ruled out the remote possibility that this was Peggy’s brother, Michael, who died in 1940, Peggy had said.) She wondered who this man was to Peggy, and why she kept his picture in front of her mirror, so that she would wind up looking at him every day when she applied her makeup and perfume.

Angie packed everything from the bedroom vanity into the elegant, leather cosmetics case she found in the bathroom, but left the photograph where it was for now. Then she took most of the shoe and hat boxes through to her room. Peggy’s bright, red fedora (which had caught her eye right from the moment Peggy first walked into the Automat) was out of its box, and when she found the box without a hat in it, she discovered a small pile of letters inside, some of them not in their envelopes, as if they had recently been reread.

Angie recognised the blacked-out portions, which meant that they probably came from a soldier at war. (“I wonder where he is now,” Angie’s mother used to say, holding a letter from Bruno tight in both hands, like maybe it would tell her more that way. “They don’t want the enemy to know, so it’s best we don’t either,” her dad would reply sternly – as if a mother could spoil America’s war just by wondering about what was happening to her baby boy.)

The letters were all written in the same handwriting and Angie puzzled briefly over the name and address on the envelopes (M F Butters, C/O The Westminster Wireless Company, 364 Baker Street, London NW1). She smoothed some of the thin, crumpled pages on her lap, the way her mother used to before reading what Bruno had written…

‘Dear P,

I am really sorry we didn’t get to talk before I (blacked-out words). I looked for you on the base but they said you were (blacked-out words). H told me what fondue is – I guess it’s not a thing we really have back in Brooklyn. But even if he hadn’t said anything, I would have known I was wrong to say what I said. I hope you know I think an awful lot of you, and I would never…’

Startled, Angie realised that she had read by accident half of the first paragraph, and that this was a private thing of Peggy’s that she had no right to (just like the flunky shouldn’t have been handling Peggy’s pretty, satin nightie). She stood up to put the letter aside, glanced at it again and read further down the page: ‘A while back we trekked down a hillside covered in poppies. They were the prettiest red I’ve seen so far in nature and they made me think of you.’ Angie hastily pushed all the letters back into the hat box, put the fedora on top of them, and stumbled out of the room with the box, so that she could put it out of her own reach. She inserted it a little precariously underneath Peggy’s other hat and shoe boxes, now piled up in her own apartment, and then returned to 3E.

On Peggy’s bed, her jewellery case had been left half-upturned and open, and inside it Angie found the key to the trunk.

Angie thought maybe she wasn’t great at packing: she hadn’t really been many places, so hadn’t needed to do it much, and she also didn’t own anything like the array of clothes that Peggy did. She folded some billowing tissue paper (presumably left over from the last time Peggy had packed herself) a little haphazardly in with the dresses and then afterwards dragged the trunk along the hall to join Peggy’s other things. She remembered teasing Peggy about whether there were rocks inside the trunk and decided that it was definitely lighter now than it had been then.

On the floor of Peggy’s closet, there was still a large, canvas bag, similar to ones demobbed soldiers used, and this was very heavy. Angie wondered whether some of its contents had previously been inside the trunk. Experimentally she opened the end of the bag – and pulled out the thin barrel of a rifle. “Holy Mother of God, Peggy!” exclaimed Angie, reverting as she sometimes did in moments of shock to the Roman Catholic expletives she had heard in her neighbourhood growing up. Gingerly she unzipped the bag a little further and revealed the coverall she had once seen Peggy wearing in the middle of the night, a rope harness of some kind, a second rifle and a revolver. “Oh crap!” she muttered. Hastily she re-zipped the bag, pushed it along the hall and into her room using her foot, and manoeuvred it all the way to the back of her own closet. Then she piled all her own shoes and pocketbooks on top of the bag – though she knew that this wouldn’t stop the Feds from finding it, in her closet only half-full of affordable dresses and knitwear, if they really did come back with a judge’s signature on a warrant.

Angie returned to Peggy’s apartment, her heart beating a good deal faster than normal.

All that was left was the photograph, the patchwork quilt on the bed, the jewellery box, a battered old tin and some sketch books. (These last items had been in the bottom of the trunk, but Angie had taken them out, not wanting to dirty Peggy’s lovely clothes.) Angie placed the photograph in with the jewellery, then carried all the remaining things into her own room. She put the tin, the sketch books and the jewellery box on top of the trunk and curled up on her bed underneath the quilt, which smelled faintly of Peggy’s floral perfume. She wondered where Peggy was now, just like her mom used to wonder about Bruno.

Exhausted, afraid and lonely, Angie lay on the bed with Peggy’s quilt, until she fell asleep at last still in her clothes. Her rest was troubled and fitful, with dreams invaded and interrupted by the confused scenarios playing out inside her head: Dottie laughed as she and Peggy shot at each other with rifles; the Feds arrested Angie whilst her mother cried and Miriam told her that she was giving her room to her cousin, Bianca; and Peggy fell out of windows over and over again before Angie could stop her, but always disappeared instead of ever actually hitting the ground.

*

The next day, a Tuesday, a telephone message was left for Angie that the Automat was closed, because of an incident on Monday which had put two federal agents in hospital. Angie decided that she was ill in any case, and went back to bed. She tried to imagine that the agents and the hospital had nothing whatsoever to do with anything involving Peggy.

At lunchtime Miss Fry unexpectedly came by with a bowl of soup and the suggestion that Angie might feel better if she were to called her mother. Angie didn’t want to speak to anyone in her family just now, but she was disconcerted and reluctantly touched that Miriam (with whom she had been planning to sulk) seemed worried about her. (She reflected that it was moments like this one that once caused her to describe Miriam as ‘a total pussycat.’) In the evening Carol brought a sandwich and some fruit, whilst Lorraine brought the startling news that there had been an explosion at the New York Bell Company. (“Pretty lucky Peggy got arrested so she couldn’t go to work!” she observed in an incongruously sanguine tone.)

Wednesday was the anniversary of VE Day, and Miriam hung strings of pennants in the lobby, then made a short, patriotic speech; Carol and Vera chatted about how strange it was, that it seemed as if the war was only yesterday, and yet it also felt like it had been a whole, other lifetime ago. None of this made Angie feel at all like she had anything to celebrate.

She never worked the Wednesday shifts, so instead of going to the Automat, she took the subway to the building of the New York Bell Company. Some of the windows on upper floors were boarded up and the street was partly cordoned off, but there were no other signs of an explosion, and the _Daily News_ reported that only one person had been killed. She waited for some time on the sidewalk, watching men running in and out of the phone company, looking worried and important. She couldn’t speak to any of them, because of the police barrier still in place; none proved to be Mr Fancy and she saw no sign of Peggy either.

Back in her room that afternoon, Angie listened to the radio, which was full of the news that Howard Stark had been exonerated from the charge of treason, and also that a bunch of people had died in an unexplained tragedy at a downtown movie theater. Angie felt sleep-deprived and cut off from everyone else, as though the world were ending and only she really knew it: the city seemed full of bad omens – explosions and mass, mysterious deaths – and she opened her window and scanned the Manhattan skyline, checking for further catastrophes.

*

Carol knocked on her door. “Angie? You need to eat. When did you last have a proper meal?”

Dinner was scheduled earlier than usual, to accommodate the evening’s celebrations, and it dawned on Angie that she was actually pretty hungry right now. She thought that Carol might be right: perhaps she _was_ in need of food, company and something to take her outside of her own head.

The dining room resounded with shrill, excited chatter. It turned out the girls were full of curiosity because the Federal-flunkies had come by again, not (as Angie momentarily feared) with a warrant for Peggy’s things, but rather to question Miriam about Dottie Underwood.

“Maybe they think Dottie and Peggy are in it together?” suggested Mary, without any consideration of what ‘it’ might be. (Speculation about Peggy’s possible crimes had been rife since Monday night, with popular theories being that she was a high-end thief, or a gangster’s moll.)

“They aren’t in _anything_ together,” snapped Angie irritably, “Peggy’s innocent.” She ignored the exchanges of wary, embarrassed looks that followed this.

“But, she must have done _something_ , Angie,” ventured Vera at last.

“How do we know they didn’t come looking for Dottie because she set Peggy up?” demanded Angie defiantly, spearing garden peas individually with her fork.

“You did say a while back there was something fishy about Dottie,” remarked Carol corroboratively.

“There was always something pretty fishy about _Peggy_ ,” shot back Gloria. “She was awful mysterious for just a ‘Hello Girl’.”

“Maybe Peggy _told_ those Federal Agents that Dottie set her up. Guilty people _always_ _claim_ they were set up,” observed Mary (as if being a legal secretary meant that she saw this kind of thing every day).

“Yeah, dim, little Dottie: Iowa’s most dangerous, criminal mind!” responded Helen sarcastically from a neighbouring table.

“She’s not dim!” protested Gloria, shocked. “I don’t think she’s dim. Okay, she’s not _smart,_ like Peggy…”

“ _That’s my point_!” responded Helen, as if she had irrefutably proved that Peggy was the guilty one.

“But why did Dottie run away?” persisted Carol on Angie’s behalf. “And why didn’t she say good bye? Or pay the rent?”

“It _is_ weird that she didn’t say anything,” conceded Gloria, troubled. “I made her a pickles pouch specially. And I was gonna sew her a dress, 'cos of how much she liked my new one.”

“She probably just ran out of money,” dismissed Helen in a bored tone, as she stood up to get ready for her evening. “In any case, _some of us_ have a date!”

Helen left just as Lorraine breezed in, and began swiping food over their heads instead of sitting down. She crammed her pocketbook full, so that she could eat between celebrations later, and unexpectedly favoured Angie with a bright, friendly smile. “I reckon they’ll let Peggy go now everyone decided Howard Stark didn’t do anything after all. I heard a rumour someone tried to shoot him, but who would do that to someone so rich and cute? Hopefully Peg will bring him along to the party tonight!” Lorraine tottered out, accompanied by the clatter of her heels and a cloud of intoxicating perfume.

Angie, Carol, Vera, Gloria and Mary all stared at one another, completely baffled. Then Vera asked, “Just how much did that girl have to drink already?”

*

Later in the evening Angie again opened her window: it was growing dark and fireworks were beginning to echo around the city. The Griffith was quiet, with most of its residents out celebrating. (The other rooms on Angie’s side of the corridor were of course empty in any case, since they had been Peggy’s and Dottie’s.) Angie felt restless and frustrated: she had tried to catch Lorraine earlier, to find out what the hell she meant about Peggy and Howard Stark, but she had been waylaid by Miriam asking her more about the night Dottie left. Lorraine had jumped into a cab on the street outside before Angie could reach her – not that she was ever really a reliable source of information anyway. (Nevertheless, the radio confirmed that shots had been fired in the vicinity of Mr Stark earlier in the day; there had been no more news of him since then.)

Angie drifted away from the window and instead stood contemplating Peggy’s packed possessions – as if they could somehow exonerate their owner of accusations and mysteries. Craving a tangible connection to Peggy, Angie picked up one of the sketch books. (Sketches weren’t the same as someone’s letters, after all, and the books looked like nice, non-lethal things that anyone might have, with pretty flowers drawn on the front). She took the book over to her bed.

The pictures inside were lovely – delicately rendered in pencils and charcoal, but full of life somehow: a solitary soldier rested against a tree in a meadow; men laughed together around a camp fire; and a child and a cat played near a half-bombed church spire. Angie wondered whether it was Peggy who could draw this way, until towards the back of the book she came across several sketches that said otherwise: a drawing of Peggy in military uniform, then Peggy smiling, Peggy shooting a gun with her hair all in a mess, Peggy shooting a gun with her hair in perfect place, and Peggy wearing one of those gorgeous, movie-star dresses that Angie had packed into the trunk two nights before.

Angie leafed back to the front of the book, and came across an endearingly childish inscription on the inside cover: ‘This book belongs to Steven G. Rogers’.

For a moment Angie sat very still and stared at these words. Then she jumped up and went to open Peggy’s jewellery box.

And some of the pieces of the puzzle that was Peggy Carter seemed to shift and fall into place.

Steve Rogers was the skinny boy in the photograph; and Steve Rogers had written a sweet, respectful letter to Peggy, apologising for saying something wrong and comparing her to the bright, wild flowers he liked to sketch on the front of his note books. And right after the war, when they had told the country the true story of Captain America, they said that his real name had been Steven Grant Rogers, and that he had died a hero, bringing down a plane with bombs on board it and saving thousands of innocent lives.

Peggy seemed sad sometimes, and she hadn’t been a typist during the war. She knew how to fire guns, and she once had a secret alias that Captain America used when he wrote to her. (And _thank God_ Angie hadn’t gotten the dumb _Betty Carver_ role, and _no wonder_ Peggy hated that show: she was nothing like Betty, or Arlene French for that matter. And maybe Peggy also didn’t like _The Captain America Adventure Program_ for reasons that were similar to why Angie’s kid brother, Bobby, didn’t like it: “I don’t reckon he ever talked that way. They said he was from Brooklyn, like us.”)

Steve grew up in Brooklyn, the same as Bruno, Angie and Bobby. And he had been Peggy’s fella during the war. And now he was dead.

And now that he was dead, Federal Agents came and tipped out Peggy’s clothes, drove her to risk her neck on a nine-inch ledge, then took her away in handcuffs because they thought she was a communist traitor…

Angie sat back down on the bed with the photograph, the sketches and Peggy’s sweet-smelling, patchwork quilt.

Then she began to cry.

*

“That English-broad friend of yours was here the other day and the Feds came by to arrest her. She got in a fight and smashed a whole bunch of plates – kinda figures you two would be pals.”

Of course that was the kind of thing Pete, the cook, would greet her with the moment she walked in the door. Pete liked to talk; mostly he grumbled about how the girls wouldn’t stop yakking. Today though he had a whole bunch of other stuff to complain about.

Angie said nothing. She was too tired and preoccupied to pay attention to Pete’s trivial indignation, or to care about what a guy like him thought of the woman who was Peggy Carter. She pinned her cap to her head and put the coffee water on to heat.

Pete had only worked at the Automat a few months, but his uncle was the landlord of several stores on the block, so Pete acted like he owned the place himself. None of the waitresses liked covering his shifts. They all preferred Karl’s shifts, because Karl was soft as butter, read _Modern Screen_ behind the counter when business was slow, and liked to tell them all the Hollywood gossip. Pete mostly told the girls to speed up or to shut up, that when he ran his own restaurant he wouldn’t let waitresses as bad as them work there, and that he used to cook for a whole squadron of the US Army Air Forces back when he was stationed in Italy. (This was, Angie once explained to Peggy, the only reason we actually won the war.)

Pete continued to complain about the havoc wreaked by Angie’s friend on Monday afternoon: they’d had to clear out the whole place so the Feds could take her; then afterwards they couldn’t get back in because the Automat was a crime scene; and then they couldn’t open because they had to clean up all the mess caused by the fight.

Angie silently filled up the vending machines with breakfast pastries and pies, as Pete became more and more angry with her quiet detachment: because she didn’t seem to be listening to what he was saying, he kept feeling the need to come back out of the kitchen to tell her more things.

At last, when Angie went to fetch the crates so that she could fill up the drinks machine, he marched up to her and said in a warning voice: “She beat up the Feds: they were out cold. We’re not servin’ her no more, you got that? You see her, you tell her: she ever comes here again, I’m callin’ the cops. I’m callin’ the cops, an’ I’m throwin’ her out personally.”

Angie sighed. Then she said tonelessly, “Sure. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her that even though she knocked out the Federal Agents and put a bunch of them in the hospital, she’d better watch out, ’cos it’s Pete-the-Automat-Chef who’s gunnin’ for her this time.”

“ _What did you say_?” demanded Pete. He grabbed her by the throat. “You wanna give me any more lip?”

Struggling and choking in the cook’s vice-like grip, Angie’s incoherent thoughts skittered to the realisation that she should have suspected his hot temper and cold hatred before now. She had always known he was a bully. She was seeing strange spots before her eyes by the time Pete roughly let her go and went to the front of the kitchen to tip scrambled eggs into a heated tray.

Angie was still coughing and gasping a little when she went back to the empty dining space, leaving the drinks crates behind. She carefully, purposefully took off her cap and her badge, and placed them on the counter. Then she walked out into the cold, morning air and set off down the street.

*

At the library, Esther allowed her to sit in a quiet, little office meant for the librarians. She brought her cookies and a cup of cocoa, and declared that she would never eat at that Automat ever again as long as she lived. Angie let herself be fussed over, and tried to read one of the books that Esther and her colleagues left for her. She tried not to think about the fact that she had surely lost her job and would probably soon have nothing to live off and no means of paying the rent.

Later Esther and her friend Rebecca insisted on accompanying Angie home on the subway, and on walking her all the way to the Griffith door. Esther gave Angie her address and telephone number, and told her she could call or stop by any time. Angie thanked her, before wandering in a dazed, listless way into the building.

And there in the lobby – alive, free and looking for all the world as if nothing at all had happened – was _Peggy_.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A quick note on Miss Fry. I totally love Angie – and obviously Peggy – but I am also weirdly intrigued by Miriam Fry’s seemingly contradictory, but also very plausible, characterisation. She thinks young ladies ought to be home by 10pm and should want to marry, but she effectively champions female independence and safe spaces by running a boarding house for professional woman. She disapproves of the bohemian West Village but can’t help liking ballet, and she also sympathises with the sensitivities of creative people, such as actors like Angie. She considers it unsuitable for young ladies to read Freud, but has done so herself and apparently believes in the desires of the id as much as the temptations of the devil. I think she’s a gloriously comical combination of a very traditional, puritanical upbringing and her own, broader experiences as a post-war, middle-aged woman who is actually quite intelligent and cultured and also very capable of running her boarding house and her life without a man in it. I’ve tried to reflect this in the way she is capable of both compassion for Angie but also unfair, moral judgements about Peggy. I’m thinking she would also subsequently support Peggy against the disgraceful Federal Agents who wrongfully arrest her, but still disapprove of Peggy for seeming so suspiciously worldly and self-sufficient. 
> 
> 2\. ‘Hello Girls’ was a colloquial phrase which referred to women in the US and the UK who operated telephone switchboards.


	4. A Change of Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy returns to the Griffith. Angie moves out, and Mrs Martinelli comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has now gone from a three-chapter fiction to five-chapter fic!
> 
> It is now finished though, so I am going to post both chapters at once.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :)

Miss Miriam Fry was very displeased, and she made it clear to Agent Sousa that she was singularly unimpressed with him, and with all of his colleagues at the Strategic Scientific Reserve. They had marched into her ladies-only boarding house in a highly uncouth manner; they had broken a door on the third floor, upset the sensitivities of her tenants, and after all that, they hadn’t even managed to arrest the right person. Miss Fry would be writing a strongly worded letter to the Mayor of New York, and to the State Governor too. She would be making her feelings very plain indeed!

*

“ _Peggy?”_

When Angie walked into the Griffith lobby and saw Peggy there, she was momentarily so disoriented that she could think of little more to say than this. Peggy immediately broke away from the animated conversation taking place between Miss Fry and Agent Sousa, and drew Angie aside to the alcove near the telephones, so that they could speak privately.

“Are you all right?” Peggy asked.

Angie let out a short, slightly hysterical laugh. “Am _I_ all right? _Jesus Peggy_ , I didn’t know what was happening to you, and there was an explosion downtown on Tuesday that killed someone and I thought it might even be you!”

“Oh Angie, dear. I’m so sorry,” said Peggy sincerely. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Abruptly Angie felt dizzy and overwhelmed: the lights were suddenly too bright whilst the hum of lobby-chatter seemed oddly distorted and far away. “It’s not… it… it doesn’t matter, Peg,” she said, distantly aware that she was probably experiencing some kind of reaction to the events of the last four days. She blinked back some nuisance tears that were threatening to spill.

“But of course it matters,” said Peggy decisively. “Here, sit down.” She pushed Angie gently into the chair meant for residents waiting for an available telephone. Then she crouched down beside her. “Do you need a glass of water?” she asked concerned.

Angie shook her head, feeling foolish.

“I really am sorry – on several counts,” said Peggy. “And I wanted to thank you for what you did for me. I can’t think of anyone else who would have helped me like that, no questions asked. And I can explain some of what happened, if not quite everything. I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

Angie nodded. “Sure, Peg, of course. I’m not… I’m not _mad_ at you or anythin’,” she clarified.

“Thank you,” said Peggy smiling at her. Then abruptly her expression changed. “Angie? Did someone hurt you? There’s a bruise coming up all round your neck.”

Suddenly Angie was laughing again. “Are you kidding me? You were obviously pretending not to limp just now, and _look at the state of your hand_! You look like you punched a whole buncha people. Which you did, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I did,” agreed Peggy sheepishly. “It was unavoidable, unfortunately.”

“And the limp?”

“Oh, er, I think that’s mostly due to Dottie hitting me in the back with a baseball bat last night.”

“What! _What the hell_ , Peg?”

“It’s all right. Though I’m afraid I did retaliate by kicking her out of a window!”

“ _Good_!” said Angie emphatically. Then her shock caught up with her. “Jesus, Peggy! Dottie attacked you with a baseball bat? Is she the one the Feds were after, all along?”

“Yes. As it turned out.”

“I _knew it._ I _always thought_ there was _something_ weird about her!” said Angie triumphantly and Peggy looked startled. Then Angie asked, “What happened then? Was she arrested?”

“No. Regrettably, she got away.”

“After you _kicked her through a window_?” said Angie, incredulous.

“Yes, she is certainly well above average when it comes resilience and resourcefulness,” observed Peggy wryly.

The raised voices in the lobby suddenly became louder, and Peggy hastily stood up and peered around the corner, to where Miriam Fry was determinedly, publicly remonstrating with an investigator from a top-secret, Federal intelligence agency. “Oh, Lord!” said Peggy resignedly. “I’d better attempt to rescue Agent Sousa. But I want to hear about what happened to _you,_ as soon as we’re finished.”

Peggy reached out to give Angie’s hand a quick squeeze, before heading back to the reception desk. Angie, allowing herself a brief moment to catch her breath and wipe her eyes, followed her.

*

Miriam having said her piece (several times over, in fact), Daniel Sousa conceded that the matter should have been handled differently and he apologised for any distress and inconvenience he and his colleagues may have caused. He had stopped by to explain that Miss Carter was entirely innocent of any wrong doing; and he also wished to stress that whilst it was very unlikely that Dorothy Underwood would ever return to the Griffith, it was important that Miss Fry and her tenants exercise extreme caution should she do so. Miss Underwood was a dangerous criminal who was also adept at trickery and disguises. She ought not to be challenged or even approached, but the police should be notified immediately if any of the ladies were to discover her whereabouts in the future.

The small number of women gathered downstairs this early in the evening, all of whom were conspicuously eavesdropping, looked stunned, and a palpable wave of shocked murmuring rippled through the lobby. Miss Fry also exclaimed over this sensational revelation, and added, “You know, she left without paying her rent!”

Having just heard something of this from Peggy (and since she had never actually liked Dottie) Angie was less shaken than many of the other Griffith residents, and she even allowed herself a brief moment of victory when she saw that Helen and Mary were amongst the appalled onlookers. Then, conscience-stricken, she remembered Gloria’s hurt expression the night before, as she remarked on making Dottie a pouch for the smuggling of dining-room pickles.

“You should probably especially warn Gloria,” she said in a low voice to Agent Sousa. “She’s still at work right now, but I think she and Dottie were kinda friends.”

“I’ll speak to her,” the agent promised.

“You really should be more careful,” Miss Fry now resumed, albeit in a more moderate tone than previously (as if, in fact, Agent Sousa were an errant six-year-old, whose exuberance had resulted in spilt milk on a brand new rug.) “I presume it was your foolish, strong-armed tactics that alerted Miss Underwood to the need for flight in the first place. And you have also cast aspersions on the reputation of an innocent party,” (here Miriam glanced at Peggy, and her voice deepened, as if to imply that there might be some limitations to the degree of innocence involved). “A young lady’s good reputation is always a very fragile, precious commodity.” (This was addressed, with a mixture of benevolence and admonishment, to all the women present.)

Agent Sousa reiterated wholeheartedly that Miss Carter was a thoroughly upstanding, law-abiding citizen, who could be entirely trusted to live in a respectable, ladies’ boarding house on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Angie turned to gauge Miss Fry’s reaction – because you would have thought, after everything, that Miriam would now admit that she’d been wrong herself, and offer Peggy her old apartment back.

But it soon became evident that this was not going to happen: Miss Fry was sorry that Miss Carter had fallen victim to such shocking, law-enforcement incompetence; and she certainly advised Agent Sousa to reconsider his approach most seriously. However, she could not possibly allow Miss Carter to return to the Griffith, the establishment’s tenancy agreement being very clear on its policy as regards acts of vandalism: Miss Carter had deliberately put a hole in the wall of her apartment (which must have taken considerable force); she had torn away Miss Fry’s blue, prairie-rose wallpaper (a matter of no small expense in itself); and she had actually inflicted damage to the very structure of the building, by removing several of its internal bricks.

Peggy replied with uncharacteristic meekness that she quite understood, and that she would of course cover the cost of all repairs – which neatly avoided any need for explanations and also robbed Miriam of further opportunities for angry indignation. Angie could see that this was a smart move under the circumstances – except of course that it meant that Peggy, after being fully exonerated in the eyes of the law (and surviving the window ledge, an explosion and even crazy Dottie with a baseball bat), would still be moving out of the room that was just down the hall from Angie’s own.

*

They went up to Angie’s apartment, so that Peggy could fetch some of her things. (Miss Fry graciously allowed this, observing that Miss Carter was very fortunate in the loyalty and concern of her friends. She patted Angie’s arm consolingly at this point, which caused Agent Sousa to shoot her a sudden, suspicious look – probably because he was remembering Angie’s highly distracting outburst on Monday evening. Angie looked back, unrepentant.)

Peggy and Angie sat together on the bed, as Angie explained what had happened with Pete at the automat, and how this probably meant that she was now out of a job. “We’ll fix that,” asserted Peggy confidently, after thoroughly excoriating Pete’s brutish behaviour. Peggy then offered her own explanations: she had been working to clear the name of her wartime friend, Howard Stark, and this had cast her in a questionable light, until evidence was uncovered that proved Stark’s innocence and Dottie Underwood’s irrefutable guilt

Whilst she spoke, Peggy hastily repacked her case and her trunk, so that she could take a few changes of clothes with her. She would return for all of her other things soon (probably tomorrow, if Angie didn’t mind). She added, in a carefully calm voice, “Um… there was a photograph next to my make-up?”

“Jewellery box,” supplied Angie, aiming for an equally neutral tone.

“Thanks.” Peggy retrieved the picture without really seeming to look at it, though she placed it very gently in her pocketbook.

“I guess Howard Stark is the aeroplane-and-Swiss-chocolates friend, huh?” asked Angie.

“He is,” confirmed Peggy.

Then Angie said slowly and experimentally, “So you’re not a Russian spy, but I guess you _are_ actually a spy – you’re a spy for the good guys, right?”

Peggy sat down again beside Angie, her eyes narrowed, and Angie decided to forge ahead, having that evening deduced further details of Peggy’s professional life: “That man, Agent Sousa, and the others who came for you: they knew already you, right? I guess he’s one of those ‘phone company’ co-workers, who regularly annoy you?”

“Actually he’s one of the better ones,” said Peggy simply. Then she asked shrewdly, “Is there anything else that ‘you guess,’ that I should be aware of?”

“Um… I also kinda figured out that you and Captain America must’ve been sweethearts during the war,” replied Angie in an awkward hurry.

Peggy was quiet for a moment, and she folded an arm across her breast (like maybe she had a hold of Captain America’s shield). “You seem to be quite an accomplished spy yourself, Angie,” she remarked almost conversationally, and Angie’s heart suddenly felt as if someone with ice-cold fingers had gripped and squeezed it hard.

She tried to explain in a nervous, guilty muddle how Carol had thought that Miriam might throw out Peggy’s things, and how the lock was broken on the apartment door, and how she had decided to pack up everything in the room, which meant she had found things by accident… and she hadn’t meant to snoop, but Peggy was gone and… the sketchbook was there, and so she had opened it because…

“Because what?” asked Peggy gently. Angie hazarded a glance at her face, and found that her expression was not angry or distant after all, but seemed instead compassionate and simply curious.

“Because I was scared,” confessed Angie timidly. “I won’t… I would never tell anyone anything.”

Peggy regarded her seriously for a moment. “I know. I trust you,” she said at last. “And I appreciate you rescuing my possessions from Miriam’s vengeful wrath. And I don’t really mind that you know about Steve – in fact, it’s rather a relief, in a way. Only the thing is, we need to be careful: the more of my secrets you know about, the more we could both end up inadvertently putting you at risk.”

“Oh,” said Angie, who had not considered this.

“That’s why I wasn’t sure I should move in here, in the first place.”

“ _Oh_!” said Angie, as suddenly another big piece of the Peggy-puzzle slotted unexpectedly into place.

Peggy grimaced ruefully. “It’s bad enough that you should have to put up with rotten customers who smack your behind, and violent cooks who almost strangle you, but because of _me_ a highly trained Russian assassin moved in two doors down from your flat, and we’ve been having breakfast and dinner with her every day for months now!”

“Is Dottie _really_ a _Russian assassin?”_

“Yes, she is. Which I probably shouldn’t have told you. Though actually I would rather you understand just how deadly she is. I don’t want you ever to have to meet her again, and I don’t want you exposed to dangers because of _me,”_ said Peggy firmly.

Angie considered this for a moment. Then she gave Peggy a small, shy grin. “You’re kinda like Captain America yourself, aren’t you, English? I probably shoulda been callin’ you _Captain England_ really.’”

Peggy laughed a little unsteadily. Then she said, “Oh dear. I’m not really sure what to do about you, Angie darling. The truth is, I decided to move here after all because a friend pointed out to me that there was little sense in trying to protect a world I was scarcely allowing myself to live in. And I don’t want to put you in danger, but at the same time, you – and Mr Jarvis too, I suppose – have made me realise that I have been rather lonely of late... Or, not even that…” Peggy frowned, apparently grappling with something. “… When I climbed out onto that ledge, I did it because Howard had something that belonged to Steve, and I would have done anything to protect Steve’s memory, even if it could mean dying myself. But I was feeling thoroughly desperate, and then suddenly there _you_ were, giving the most splendid performance imaginable, simply because you’re you, and you wanted to help me. And I think perhaps I haven’t just been _lonely_ since Steve died – I’ve been most awfully … _alone._ ”

“Oh Peggy,” said Angie, her heart beating faster and hurting in a completely different way than before. “There’s no need for that. Even though you love Steve, and even though you have secrets because of being an amazing secret-agent-spy – you still don’t have to be alone.”

“Yes. I believe you’re right,” said Peggy softly. “Thank you, Angie.”

And then, because there were now tears on her perfect cheekbones, and because she was British and so was made that way, Peggy seemed to decide that it was time to become very brisk and practical all of a sudden. “So what are we going to do,” she asked humorously, “about this mess I’ve got you into, by punching my colleagues in a way that inconvenienced your colleagues? And how are we going to punish that thoroughly horrible cook who bruised your poor neck?”

Angie, who had not previously considered retribution as a viable option, took in the dangerous gleam in Peggy’s eye with a mixture of wariness and warmth. “You weren’t thinkin’ of goin’ after him with a fork, were you, English?” she asked in trepidation.

“I imagine we can find something a little less improvisational on this occasion. I am sure there are _plenty_ of weapons we could lay our hands on.” Peggy’s face broke into a mischievous, relishing smile.

*

Howard Stark’s apartment on Fifth Avenue took up the whole top floor of a building that had turrets like a castle, and Mr Fancy – who was really Peggy’s friend and Howard Stark’s butler, Mr Jarvis – showed Angie around the place as if she would be doing him a personal favour if she were to agree to live there for free with Peggy. Angie happily explored one room after another, full of wonder at what people actually did when they had so much space to spread themselves out in. (“In Howard’s case, it’s probably best not to enquire too closely,” remarked Peggy dryly.)

Later Angie confessed to Peggy that she had lied to her mother on the phone, pretending that the friend of Peggy’s, who had offered to loan them the apartment, was a rich, old lady who was out of town for a while. “I kinda don’t think she would like it if she thought I was living at Howard Stark’s place.”

“And one could entirely see her point,” agreed Peggy, and she asked Mr Jarvis to assist Howard in avoiding social calls at times when Mrs Martinelli was visiting.

Before Angie moved in, Peggy also took down all portraits of Howard Stark (there were an awful lot of these in the apartment), as well as a number of prominently displayed paintings featuring more nakedness than the Martinellis might wish their daughter to encounter. “They’re actually remarkable, valuable works of art,” Peggy observed to Angie as regards these pictures, “But they don’t really fit with our old-lady cover story.” (This made Angie laugh, because Peggy sounded just like a spy.) They swapped the paintings for some safely respectable landscapes from a couple of the smaller, spare rooms. “Of course, we could buy lots of identical Renoir prints to make us feel _really_ at home!” suggested Peggy mischievously.

So Angie moved out of the Griffith Hotel for Women and into a Fifth Avenue penthouse with Peggy. Miss Fry appeared genuinely sorry to lose her as a tenant, and she also fussed and clucked at the idea of a good girl like Angie moving in with a woman like Miss Carter – who she conceded was not a criminal, but who nevertheless seemed very _European._ Angie, of course, resisted any temptation to inform her that Peggy had once been the best girl of Captain _America_ – or to point out that during her time at the Griffith, Angie had lived down the hall from a deadly Soviet assassin (and that Miriam had seen nothing to object to in her homicidal tenant, beyond the possibility that, as a dancer, she might prove ‘carefree and irresponsible.’)

Once they were settled in their new home, Peggy suggested inviting Esther and Rebecca around for dinner (which Angie cooked, though Peggy certainly proved herself proficient at chopping up ingredients very small with extremely sharp knives). Angie was surprised when Peggy joined in the conversation in a way she never had during meals at the Griffith, and she realised that Peggy enjoyed talking about books, places and ideas much more than she liked boarding-house, girls-night gossip (which mostly ended up being about men). Peggy was not very comfortable sharing her feelings, perhaps due to her upbringing as well as her profession, and in any case her feelings for Steve Rogers were probably far too raw and real to be offered up as entertainment to a room full of other women. Peggy liked _discussion,_ and where personal revelations were involved, she favoured conversations that were one-on-one. Although Angie loved to talk, she felt an unexpected affinity with Peggy in this, because she herself didn’t much like gossiping in a group of girls about men – mostly because this served to remind her how little she had to say, or desired to know, on the subject. When she once observed to Peggy, as a way of launching into friendly chatter, that you could “eat Captain America with a spoon,” this had been mostly because she knew that other girls talked to each other in this way: she had been surprised, and secretly relieved, by Peggy’s decidedly lukewarm response. 

Somehow the upshot of the evening, and Peggy’s conversation with Esther and Rebecca, was that Rebecca ended up recommending Angie for a job at the library, organising shelves in the circulating collection. It was not necessarily the most exciting or well-paid work around, but it would be a regular wage with no dependence on tips, and had the advantage of still being easily adaptable around any auditions and rehearsals, particularly since it was so close to the Theater District. Angie’s biggest expense had always been the Griffith rent anyway, which she no longer needed to afford.

Fortunately, when told the plan, Angie’s mother approved of the fact that there would be no late-evening shifts, whilst her father liked the respectability of how the job sounded. (He stopped pressing Angie about secretary school, although he did question whether his daughter could manage to stay quiet long enough to hold down a job in a library.)

*

There was of course still the problem of the automat to consider. When they came to talk over the matter seriously, Angie told Peggy that she definitely did not want to go to the police about Pete, since she was afraid that most cops would think it a trivial complaint, and that they might even laugh at her. Peggy understood her reluctance, although she had still insisted on photographing the evidence of Angie’s bruises the day after she returned to the Griffith. (Angie had been more interested in the evidence of Peggy’s life in espionage: “You have a camera _inside a pen_?”)

“I ran into Iris from the automat today,” reported Angie not long after she moved in with Peggy. “She says Pete almost slapped her once. Also, she reckons Pete’s uncle, the one that owns the building, might be mobbed up, so she said I really shouldn’t make any trouble.”

“Is that so?” responded Peggy. “You never know – that could actually be useful to us.”

After some investigation, Peggy reported that Pete’s namesake, Uncle Pietro, was not thought to be a mobster himself, but that his restaurant, Sapori’s, was a well-known Mafia haunt, and was undoubtedly the location of a number of Mafia-related crimes. With this in mind, she called in a favour from an old war buddy from the 107thInfantry, who was now an FBI Agent at the New York office. At Peggy’s instigation, Agent Ralston visited the automat to tell Pete that he had heard about how he treated waitresses, and if he ever laid a hand on a waitress (or any other woman) again, then the FBI’s next stop would definitely be that terrific, downtown establishment, Sapori’s. There they’d be sure to tell the clientele how helpful Pietro’s nephew, Pete, had been with a bunch of recent, major Bureau enquiries: everyone who went there would be real clear on exactly how appreciative the FBI was for Pete’s whole-hearted co-operation and how he was considered a real buddy when it came to Federal law enforcement.

“I understand he did in fact cry,” said Peggy matter-of-factly to Angie. “And there was some begging too. Hopefully we have at the very least given him serious food for thought.”

“You’re the best, Peggy,” said Angie laughing. Peggy smiled, then helped herself to one of the cookies Angie had baked that morning.

*

When Angie first moved to Manhattan in 1944, it had been so that she could live closer to where she worked, which was a canteen for soldiers being shipped out from the Hudson River embarkation point. She had shared with Moira, who came from Queens, and who likewise served food at the temporary terminal for mobilised troops.

Their apartment was little more than one room, with a sliding ‘wall’ providing each of them a small, separate sleeping area, and Angie’s mother hadn’t thought much of either the accommodation or the neighbourhood. Angie had considered the arrangement good enough for a first place of her own – or at least it was until Frank, Moira’s sweetheart, was discharged from the Navy. After that, the thin, dividing wall was nowhere near enough to muffle the frequent sounds of amorous reunions and lovers’ tiffs, and then Moria suddenly announced that she and Frank were engaged to be married. (Angie concluded that the pair of them must have simply grown used to being at war, even with each other.) She hadn’t expected Moira to move out within a fortnight of this development, but as Moira explained, why waste money paying for a dump of an apartment, when she and Frank were saving to live in Armonk in a house with a front porch and a backyard?

Moira left just as VE Day arrived, and since there were now many more soldiers shipping home than shipping out, Angie’s parents fully expected her to return to Brooklyn and to her family. But by now Angie had lived in Manhattan for nearly seven months and, the floodlights of Broadway being closer than they had ever been before, she decided to pursue the dream she had had since she was fifteen by enrolling in acting classes. Her desire to remain in the City, when there were no longer hungry troops justifying her presence there, might have been a real point of contention with her parents had it not been for the Griffith Hotel for Women.

It was Moira’s friend, Vera, who told Angie how she was moving to a swell boarding house on the Upper East Side, where the girls had their own bathrooms and where meals were included in the rent. Angie and her mother went to visit the Griffith together, and Mrs Martinelli had a long, comfortable talk with Miss Fry, concerning the benefits of curfews, the reliability of the hotel water pipes and the importance of regular, hearty meals for the young. Afterwards both women were very happy for Angie to move into 3C, and secretly Angie’s mother even gave her some of the Martinelli weekly house-keeping money, so that she could buy clothes that were suitably smart for her respectable, new address.

Of course, Howard Stark’s six-bedroom residence, facing out onto Central Park, was clearly a big step up from one of Miriam Fry’s cosy, little apartments; and Angie explained all this to her mother when she excitedly called home (using one of the ten, available telephones) on the evening Mr Jarvis showed her around the penthouse. Unfortunately, Mrs Martinelli was not at all reassured: the Martinellis always worked hard and paid their way and they never took anything from anybody; the same went for the Parondi family (because originally Angie’s mother was a Parondi) – _they_ hadn’t even accepted charity when they left Naples for Milan, with nothing but the shirts on their backs to call their own. (“They didn’t even have pants?” asked Angie flippantly, which had not helped her case at all.)

Angie’s hasty invention of a rich, old-lady acquaintance of Peggy’s was clearly infinitely preferable to the truthful explanation that a notorious, millionaire womaniser wanted to install both Angie and Peggy in his spare, secret penthouse, where he previously entertained Lana Turner and Jane Russell. Nevertheless, Mrs Martinelli remained doubtful about the whole scheme, particularly since she had very much approved of her daughter living under the strict but kindly auspices of Miriam Fry, who kept a close eye on the boarding-house girls and made sure that they came home at a sensible hour. (Angie did not point out that Peggy broke the curfew all the time, or that Miriam had once, in one of her ‘pussy-cat’ moments, made Angie an exception to the curfew’s ‘no-exceptions’ rule – Angie having described the French-maid comedy as more highbrow than it really was, when appealing to the generosity of her discriminating landlady.)

Given her mother’s past, strong views (both negative and positive) on her living arrangements, Angie was a little nervous about the idea of anyone in her family actually seeing her new home and also meeting Peggy for the first time. Peggy seemed to belong to an entirely different sphere of Angie’s existence than did any of her Brooklyn relatives, and she couldn’t quite imagine mixing the two together. She was not sure she wanted the two to mix at all, since she knew that she would find it painful if Peggy were to dislike the reality of the Martinellis’ down-to-earth roots; it would also hurt if her mother were to assume, as Miriam disapprovingly did, that there could be only one kind of experience which would render a woman as strikingly confident as Peggy Carter clearly was.

In the event, when Mrs Martinelli did in fact call to see Angie (bringing her youngest son with her), the occasion went off remarkably well, with Bobby entirely in awe of the palatial penthouse, and Mrs Martinelli not a little in awe of Peggy’s clothes, voice and English sophistication. Peggy was warm and welcoming, and Angie soon saw that her mother approved of her because of the quality which had first drawn Angie to her, and first aroused the ever-vigilant suspicions of Miss Fry, which was that Peggy somehow always seemed to be fully, successfully grown up (in a way that Angie herself never felt able to accomplish). Mrs Martinelli liked Peggy Carter for the same reason that she had liked Miriam Fry (which was perhaps ironic, given how little the two women themselves had seen eye-to-eye), namely that she considered her capable and responsible when it came to looking out for Angie, in the absence of parental oversight.

Mrs Martinelli was also very relieved that her daughter was due to start work at the library in a week, since she remembered well the Great Crash of ’29, and the idea of unemployment remained a real, superstitious dread, even when her daughter had somehow managed to secure herself a free, Fifth Avenue penthouse. “The library…” said Mrs Martinelli contemplatively. “You know, Angie always was very smart. All her teachers said so.” This caused Angie to cringe in embarrassment, since she was taking a job that appeared to require little more skill than a command of the alphabet, and since Peggy was a whole different scale of smart than anything the Martinellis were used to.

(“Yes, I imagine they did,” said Peggy confidently, in reference to the praise bestowed by Angie’s former teachers, and Angie gave her a slightly sheepish smile.)

Later Mrs Martinelli and Peggy agreed on how much they loved the view from the Brooklyn Bridge, and how happy they both were when the walkways, which had been encased during the war to prevent espionage of battleships in the Navy Yard, were opened up again. “Though can you imagine there being _spies_ in Brooklyn?” asked Mrs Martinelli.

“Of course there were spies, Ma,” said Bobby impatiently. “This is the greatest city in the world: enemies want to know what goes on here. There were Nazi spies during the war, and there are Commie spies here now! Don’t you reckon so?” (Here Bobby appealed to the well-spoken authority of Peggy.)

“Um, yes, I imagine that’s probably the case…” replied Peggy neutrally.

Mrs Martinelli accepted this answer and another cup of coffee, whilst Bobby asserted his own ability (with an accompanying, illustrative mime) to spot spies coming and shoot them dead. Peggy graciously offered sugar and cream, and effectively muffled this profession of counter-espionage expertise by placing a third scone on Bobby’s plate when his mother wasn’t looking. She and Angie carefully avoided each other’s eyes.

*

For Angie, living with Peggy inevitably meant lying to her mother, father and brothers.

It was this difficult, double life (along with the threat of Soviet assassins) that Peggy experienced every day; and it was the isolation that comes with deception that was one of the things Peggy had been trying to spare Angie from ever encountering (along with the threat of Soviet assassins).

“It’s less lonely if you keep secrets _with_ someone else,” Angie pointed out, when Peggy explained this to her.

“Yes. But it’s more dangerous too,” countered Peggy. “Plus I don’t want to come between you and your family.”

But Angie did not regret knowing more about Peggy’s life than previously – if anything she was eager to learn more still, and the revelation that Peggy had often, in the last year, stood on the Brooklyn Bridge to contemplate the view (and had also spent time exploring Brooklyn itself) caused Angie to ache a little inside. She knew that this was Peggy’s way of trying to feel close to Steve Rogers, now that he was gone, and she wanted more than anything to offer comfort in whatever form Peggy would accept it.

Angie couldn’t help feeling happy that she had left the Griffith and moved in to Howard Stark’s place, and the cover stories she invented for her family, along with a number of lies by omission, did nothing to alter this. If anything, they added to Angie’s sense that her life was changing, that she was on the brink of something big, bold and different to what she had known before. It seemed fitting to her that her bed was a now a four-poster with silk, embroidered hangings, and that her bedroom walls were rounded, like a fairy-tale tower. Soon she would start a new job, to go with her new home, and she would also resume auditioning, her confidence no longer wilted by oppressive memories of the Cherry Tree Theatre.

The evening after her mother and brother came to visit, Angie sat out on the penthouse roof terrace waiting for Peggy to come home. The darkness of Central Park at night was spread out to the west of her, and the bright lights of the City’s streets and avenues stretched tantalisingly to the East. Manhattan seemed full of sparkling promise, inviting her to embark on strange, new journeys, and she wondered what might possibly happen to her next…

*


	5. Taking on New Roles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie's life moves on, though she still encounters some of the Griffith women from time to time. She signs to discover new communities of modern, female professionals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and encouragement. It's much appreciated. :)

On the first day of her new job at the New York Public Library, Angie wore her best jacket and shoes, and Peggy picked out a string of amber beads from her own jewellery box and fastened them around Angie’s neck. She helped Angie fix back her hair with two, new mother-of-pearl combs, then turned her round so that they could both admire the results in the mirror. “There,” said Peggy in a soft, satisfied tone, “You look every inch the part.”

The women employed in the circulating section of the New York Public Library were mostly older than Angie, or any of the girls she knew through the Griffith and the automat. But on the whole they were patient and kind, and Angie made friends with several of them during her first few days at work.

Angie had always loved to read, and she soon found that she liked the smell of the books, the palatial chandeliers and exquisite hush of the Grand Study Hall, and how it seemed to be fine in a library to fetch and carry in a slow, day-dreamy rhythm (the way it never was when you waited tables).

A few of her new colleagues were, like Esther and Rebecca, college graduates, and after learning that Angie was an actress, they sometimes recommended new plays they thought she might like. Angie was particularly surprised by the books that Esther enjoyed, which were difficult, artistic and sometimes explicit to a degree that Angie had never imagined someone of Esther’s age and respectability reading. Esther and Rebecca often talked to Angie about their favourite stories and characters, and over lunch breaks they sometimes helped her with audition pieces. Angie thought Nana would have liked these conversations, because Nana had been offered a scholarship to a school run by nuns when she was a girl, but had pretended not to want it, since there were too many mouths to feed for anyone in the family to delay bringing in a wage.

It turned out that Vera from the Griffith was a library regular, since she got through crime and spy stories like she was running a race. (“It’s kind of a shame you can’t tell her what you really do,” remarked Angie to Peggy regretfully, after Vera claimed that she always spotted the killer and cracked the mystery by the end of the third chapter.)

Miriam Fry also liked to visit the library, and she was evidently surprised on the first occasion when she saw Angie working there. A few weeks later, when they encountered each other in the entrance lobby just as Angie was returning from her lunch break, Angie took the opportunity, in reply to Miriam’s enquiries, to inform her that the library position had been Peggy’s idea in the first instance.

“Well, I am pleased to hear that Miss Carter’s influence is proving a positive one,” remarked Miss Fry, her tone suggesting that she had rather imagined Angie ending up in a taxi dance hall or a burlesque house after falling in with Peggy.

Angie was sorely tempted, when asked how she liked her new home, to reveal that she was living in a Fifth Avenue penthouse. (She decided against it, however, just in case Miriam were to start imagining that Peggy was actually living off immoral earnings in order to sustain such luxury.) She settled instead on, “It’s a nice apartment. Pretty roomy. And we’re near Central Park.”

Miriam replied caustically that she trusted the walls and wallpaper were as yet intact, but Angie refused to rise to this barb. She remained on her best behaviour until the end of the conversation, when she couldn’t resist a slightly mischievous parting shot: “Enjoy your reading,” she said slyly, having spotted the dust jacket of Miriam’s romance novel as she pushed it into her pocketbook. Miriam blushed deeply, and Angie felt mildly repentant at having exposed this secret indulgence to the light of day.

She retained a peculiar mixture of gratitude and resentment towards Miss Fry, who blatantly played favourites, but who valued hard work, humility and honesty over well-connected privilege. This meant that her special, chosen few had always included Angie herself as well Carol, and had also excluded Helen, whose unspecified job at her godmother’s beauty magazine seemed to resemble a hobby (and whose rent was paid by her wealthy father). Miriam’s erratic prejudices were such that when she took against someone, she made her displeasure very clear indeed. Yet at the same time, Angie remembered that after Molly was evicted, Vera had seemed peculiarly unwilling to join in the general condemnation of their landlady. When asked, Vera explained quietly to Angie and Carol that she considered Miriam ‘better than a lotta white people,’ in never having shown any reluctance to accept Vera as a tenant on account of the colour of her skin.

When it came to ‘Miss Carter’ (a name Miss Fry tended to enunciate with a disapproving quiver in her voice), Angie sometimes wondered whether Peggy’s real crime was in fact her capable self-sufficiency – because what Miriam liked most of all was to feel that she was urgently needed. Perhaps this was why she was determined to find Peggy guilty of loose morals, since she badly wanted to be able to rescue Miss Carter from _something_. But Angie had had a good look at the cover of Miriam’s library book (which was in any case one she returned to the shelves pretty often). It featured not only a dashing Heathcliff-pretender on a white stallion, but also a dark-eyed beauty, brandishing a riding crop and sporting a jaunty, red, feathered cap. In fact, this heroine looked an awful lot like Peggy, and Angie reflected that Miriam was possibly more fascinated and more forgiving of spirited, adventurous young women than she was ever prepared to admit to in public.

*

For several weeks, Angie encountered no one from their old life at the Griffith besides Vera and Miriam. Then one day she was thrilled to spot Carol in the Study Hall, seated near the medical-research section behind a tall tower of weighty textbooks.

Over lunch, Carol told Angie that she was taking a college night class, and she admitted, in a way that was almost shame-faced, that she had been wondering whether she could feasibly retrain whilst working part time to support herself.

“You mean, become a _doctor_?” asked Angie, awestruck by the loftiness of this ambition.

Carol confided to her that the junior medics on her shifts didn’t really seem any smarter than she was, and that she had assisted (and sometimes more-than assisted) with operations in field hospitals during the war. What she really wanted, she said, was to become a surgeon, and New York Medical College had actually been accepting women since 1917… though of course not that many women got to go… and also, she didn’t know of anyone winding up a surgeon, who had come over from Mexico when they were five, because their parents couldn’t survive off farming any more in the years after the revolution.

“Peggy would say, that’s all the more reason to be the first,” Angie pointed out.

Carol smiled. Then she replied, “Peggy is real smart and determined, and I’m sure she’s great at… whatever it is she does… but she kinda talks like one of those two, English princesses. Me? I make an effort to sound different from my parents, and I’m pretty sure that helped, when I put in to be made senior nurse.”

Angie, about to counter that Peggy wasn’t some pampered princess, remembered the senator-friend of Peggy’s father, and that, although Peggy had been forced to sacrifice going to Cambridge, this was because of the war, and not because of money. She very much doubted that anyone in the Carter family had ever had to turn down a scholarship the way Nana once did. (Probably they weren’t the kind of people who were dependent on scholarships in the first place, no matter how capable they might be of winning them.) And then she was struck, disquietingly, by another thought about Peggy, which she couldn’t quite dispel, despite the fact that she was getting to know Peggy better all the time. “I'm not really sure how rich Peggy’s family is,” she admitted to Carol. “She’s good at faking stuff like that… Maybe she changed her voice, too?”

“I dunno,” said Carol sceptically. “I reckon you can tell the people who are born to it.”

*

After dinner that day Angie and Peggy sprawled on the opulent sofas and cushions in their apartment, drank some of the wine Howard was always urging them to try, and chatted about Angie’s day (since Peggy’s day consisted mostly of classified activities). For all its extravagant comforts, it was these evenings of meandering, uninterrupted conversation with Peggy that were the luxury Angie enjoyed most about her new home.

Angie told Peggy about Carol’s medical-school ambitions and how Carol had worked at her accent, Eliza-Doolittle-style, so as to seem less Mexican than her parents. Then she said hesitantly, “It made me kinda think about the way you talk, English. I mean, you sound English, but you and Mr Jarvis also both sound real respectable, you know? And… well, I was thinking about how Dottie sounded like she came from Iowa, but really she came from Russia, and I guess they taught her to talk that way in spy school? I mean, I dunno how she learned it…” Angie trailed off uncertainly.

“You’re more right than you realise, Angie. I think she did go to ‘spy school’ – although I doubt she ever had a choice in the matter, so perhaps more accurately it was a spy-slave-labour-camp… Actually, you know, I do rather like the thought of a _real_ spy school!” Peggy added musingly. Then she processed the first part of Angie’s slightly gone-astray communication. “Wait – are you asking me if I’m really English?”

“No, I know you’re English. Well, I mean, I _think_ you are… I’m pretty sure you grew up just north of London, and you were gonna go to Cambridge, and your brother went to a college in Scotland, that was named after a saint – I don’t remember which one. It’s just, I guess I still don’t know all that much about you – I mean, not compared to the way you know me: my mom calls here all the time, and sometimes she comes by with Bobby, and they live in a crummy tenement in Brooklyn… you know, I’m basically an open book, and also, it’s a pretty ordinary kinda book!”

“I don’t think either of those things is true,” said Peggy firmly. “After all, I know what an accomplished actress you are! What is it you really want to know though, Angie? Are you asking me if all spies spend their lives pretending, play-acting, the way Dottie did? Or are you asking me what my parents were, and how we lived, and if I’ve ever felt the need to change things about myself to disguise my background?”

“I guess maybe a bit of both?” confessed Angie. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just none of us knew about Dottie, and I reckon you’re a pretty brilliant spy, so I just wondered whether some of the stuff I think I know about you is really… _you_.”

“Well, in fact, you _did_ suspect Dottie, more than any of us,” Peggy pointed out. “I should have said your instincts about people are excellent. And yes – I really am English, we really did live in a house in Hampstead; and no, we were never especially poor. My father was a career soldier – he was a Brigadier, in fact, when he died in ’42. So we weren’t wealthy, as such, and we were far from aristocracy, but before the war we were always comfortably off. (Although my mother did put up with a lot of cramped, army-living when she was newly married). But I went to a boarding school, and there were fees, and it was never a problem to pay them – and my voice is probably typical-British-boarding-school, because all the girls lived in one another’s pockets, so to speak, for six whole years (much more so than we ever did at the Griffith), and so most of us left sounding very similar... Um… I’m not sure how to reassure you about living with an SSR Agent, though – I don’t believe I am pretending to be someone entirely different from the real me, but I do keep secrets, and I did say I worked for a telephone company when I didn’t.”

Angie grinned. “I guess that’s kinda why I didn’t believe you – if you’d done the whole Dottie thing, with a phoney accent and a dumb-blonde routine, you’da been more convincing. But the phone company never really sat well with the accent and the swanky education, you know?”

“Quite. But I didn’t realise at the time that I was up against someone with such excellent skills in espionage herself,” said Peggy in a bemused tone.

“You mean Dottie?”

“No, Angie, dear. I meant _you_!” said Peggy laughing. Then she added seriously, “I have struggled to be accepted in my line of work; but at the same time, I haven’t experienced the type of obstacles Carol is talking about. And I know there isn’t an easy answer to wanting to be a surgeon when you started out as a girl from Mexico, or wanting to be in plays by Ibsen, Shaw or Shakespeare when you started out as a girl from Brooklyn.”

Peggy paused thoughtfully, and Angie was about to interject humorously that she couldn’t see _anyone_ letting her loose on _Shakespeare_ , when Peggy resumed wistfully, “ _I’m just a kid from Brooklyn_. That’s what _Steve_ used to say. He said it when he was interviewed, the day before the procedure that made him ‘Captain America’. The commanding officer I served under asked him to explain why he was the right man for the job, and he said he couldn’t. He said: ‘I can’t claim to be anything special: I’m just a kid from Brooklyn. All I can say is that I will always give my best and do what I believe is right.’” Peggy’s smile grew fond and proud. “He really was a darling boy, and his answer was perfect. And of course he _was_ special, but not because of the procedure and not _in spite_ of Brooklyn, or in spite of growing up sickly, without a penny to his name. He was special _because_ of where he came from, and because he never let any of his circumstances defeat him: he always came back for more, no matter how slim the odds, how often he was knocked down, or how many times he was told ‘no.’”

Peggy sighed and stared pensively into her wine glass. Then she straightened her spine and added more matter-of-factly, “I don’t know that any of that answers anything you want to know, Angie. And it certainly doesn’t solve paying for medical school, and it doesn’t make Manhattan directors and producers any less ignorant or more fair. But I suppose it’s something that makes me feel hopeful, and like anything might be possible, at times when the world seems particularly unjust.”

Once she was sure that Peggy was finished speaking, Angie let out the breath she had been holding – as if the air from her lungs, if released any sooner, could have blown the delicate threads of this precious confidence clean away. “I like that,” she said quietly, “I think Bobby’d like that too: ‘just a kid from Brooklyn!’”

Peggy smiled. Then she changed the subject – and Angie let her, because she knew that this was an awful lot of rare treasure for Peggy to share about herself, or about Steve Rogers, all in one go. “You haven’t told me recently about any auditions. Is there something coming up, that you’re going to go for?”

“Actually, yeah, there is somethin’. But Peg, I never gave you back your Ibsen. I still have it in my room.”

“You should keep it,” said Peggy definitely. “You’ll need it for when you _do_ play Nora.”

Angie smiled at Peggy’s enduring optimism and faith. But she shook her head. “I can’t keep your book, Peggy – your brother gave it to you.”

“And now I want to give it to you,” said Peggy firmly. “The last time I saw Michael, he told me not to worry about what other people think. And I’m so glad you didn’t let yourself be talked in to secretary school: you were _never_ meant for that. I know it’s difficult, and I know it can feel as if the odds are stacked against you; but I hope you never lose sight of your own value, Angie darling. Because I do really believe that you are truly remarkable, and just like Steve, you seem to me to be special _because_ of where you came from and who that made you, not in spite of those things. So, as Michael once told _me_ – go out and _break rules_ and _slay dragons_ , Angie! Because I know that you can do it!”

As was often the case when Peggy paid her a compliment, Angie felt elated and bashful at the same time. “Thanks, Peggy,” she said softly and sincerely. “I’ll try.”

*

One day pretty soon Angie planned on telling Peggy that she was kind of breaking a few rules already. Recently she had begun visiting ‘Eve’s’, the bar that Lou Blumberg at the Cherry Tree Theatre had told her about. It turned out that Eve’s was not so much the type of place that Angie’s mother would disapprove of, but was more a type of place her mother probably didn’t know existed. And Lou was right – there was no chance of meeting any men like Larry at Eve’s Bar, because there were no men there at all. But there were plenty of girls, and some of the girls sat at tables talking whilst holding hands, some of them danced with each other, and some of them retreated into dark, cosy corners together and kissed.

Lou Blumberg had been delighted to see her each of the three times she had plucked up courage and ventured across town to Eve’s – which so far had been on evenings when Peggy was working night shifts. Lou was funny and kind, and she was also the kind of sharp-witted girl who didn’t miss much: when Angie told her about moving in with Peggy to a free apartment with six bedrooms, she replied shrewdly, “So, are you gonna tell this really great roommate of yours about this place? Maybe bring her along, see if she… _likes it_?”

Angie was going to tell Peggy, but maybe not yet; because this was a real big secret, which a person needed to work their way towards sharing – a lot like if you were once Captain America’s sweetheart, or if you were pretending to be a ‘Hello Girl’ at a phone company, when really you were working at a Federal intelligence agency as an armed-and-dangerous spy. Of course there was also the fact that Angie herself had only truly understood the whole of her own secret pretty recently, and that how she felt about Peggy had been one of the things that had helped her figure it out; this meant that telling Peggy was a much bigger deal than telling, say, Carol or Esther (which actually felt like a deal that would be kind of big enough).

Then there was the matter of Steve Rogers to consider. Regardless of how Peggy might feel about Angie (or even about the idea of dating another girl), it was undeniably the case that Peggy had fallen for Steve like she had never fallen before, and that just now her heart was still in the pieces it had broken into when Captain America’s plane crashed down into the icy waters of the ocean. Angie might not ever have had (or wanted) a fella herself, but she knew enough about human hearts to understand that when something like that happened, a person needed to spend some time with their sadness before they could manage (or want) to start feeling happy again. (This was how it had been for Nana when Grandpa died, and Angie reckoned it would be that way for Peggy too, because Peggy always guarded her heart like there was an enemy at the gate – which meant she also surrendered the whole darn fort once a person actually managed to find their way inside.)

So Angie was biding her time a little. She knew, as Peggy said herself, that sharing secrets was a risky business – and being attacked by a crazy spy with a baseball bat was not the only danger. She had left behind the safe, communal living of the Griffith, just as she no longer lived at home with her parents. Peggy might be determined to protect her, but, like Nana, she was also a person who inspired Angie towards bold, precarious adventures – sometimes adventures she didn’t realise she even wanted to go on until she was already half-way there.

Right now Angie felt as if she had just discovered a whole, other Manhattan, where girls like Lou, with funny, messy hair and pretty freckles, gave her knowing, interested looks, bought her drinks Angie had never even heard of before, and invited her to go to a West Village art gallery with her friends (where one of the girls actually had her own exhibition). Angie even had an appointment with a new, theatrical agent, named Arwen, introduced to her at Eve’s by Lou’s friend, Judy.

She was happy about all of these developments, but sometimes the prospect now before her felt less like the sparkling view from the penthouse roof terrace, and more like the dizzying vertigo that came from climbing out of a window and standing on a nine-inch ledge that was three floors up. Angie was still acclimatising herself to the journey she had embarked on, feeling her way with excitement and trepidation within this startling, newfound landscape. Once she felt at home herself, then she would begin to share her discoveries with Peggy.

*

Angie felt that she was no longer the same person that she had been a year ago, or even a few months ago, and it was nice to stumble upon occasional evidence that she had the power to influence and change Peggy, just as Peggy had influenced and changed her.

Usually on a weekday Angie was home before Peggy, but one evening when Angie came back from the library she found Peggy sitting in their grand dining room, apparently on the phone to an army Colonel. When she saw Angie, Peggy waved a hand and then pointed to the telephone receiver, as if, surprisingly, she wanted Angie to listen.

“Yes, Colonel Phillips… You’re quite right, Colonel, Steve Rogers does not have any surviving relatives.”

A pause. Then Peggy resumed, her tone polite, bordering on bland. “Well, sir, it occurred to me that, in the absence of immediate family, the city of New York might have some interest in the uses being made of his name and legacy. So I wrote to the Mayor of New York and the State Governor. They were both _very interested_ , as it happens.”

The voice on the other end of the line grew louder (although Peggy appeared unconcerned by this). “It is indeed a state election year, sir, yes,” she agreed. “Governor Dewey seemed to think that my idea for a charitable foundation, dedicated to helping New York citizens, was an excellent notion. He was most eager to show his support. In fact, on his advice, I spoke with Jerome J. Franklin, the Federal Judge.”

The Colonel on the other end of the line spoke again, his tone of voice, even the tinny form which reached Angie, sounding highly interrogative. Peggy spoke again. “Well, sir, as I previously explained to General Kessel, the judge is very interested in what he calls ‘rights to publicity’ and ‘rights to privacy.’ He is in fact writing a monograph on the subject. He advised that whilst _The Captain America Adventure Program_ was entirely at liberty to tell the story of the Captain’s life, there are some legal questions over the depiction of Betty Carver, and over the broadcast around VE Day of an episode in which Miss Carver spoke to the Captain over the radio before he was lost.” Here Peggy’s confident tone faltered, but she recovered, and said in a voice that was only slightly deeper than normal. “That conversation is not widely known, sir, outside of military circles. Therefore, it does rather seem as if someone in authority, to whom the radio communication was made known, must have… _helped the writers with their script_.”

Angie gazed at Peggy, at once astonished and compassionate, whilst the Colonel spoke at length, his voice low and serious this time. “I am not seeking to make allegations, sir,” Peggy responded at last. “Although I didn’t at all welcome that incident being part of what was already a truly preposterous serialised drama. However, General Kessel has indicated to me and to Howard that he considers Captain America to be entirely the creation – the property, if you will – of the United States Armed Forces, and under those circumstances I found it necessary to show some of the weapons in my own arsenal.”

Angie listened in rapt, wide-eyed fascination, whilst Peggy gave her a gentle, slightly melancholy smile. Then the colonel asked a question, and Peggy’s tone became brisk. “According to Judge Franklin,” she replied, “if legal proceedings _were_ to be brought, then the 1933 lawsuit of Princess Irina Yusupov against Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, concerning the film _Rasputin and the Empress,_ might set a useful precedent. _The Captain America Adventure Program_ doesn’t include the ‘all-persons-are-fictitious’ declaration which I understand has become standard in the motion-picture industry since that particular legal action was brought. So, despite the wildly inaccurate depictions of other incidents, the inclusion of Steve’s last conversation could prove a problem for the radio producers and potentially the army too. Incidentally, I looked into the production: the programme is recorded in California for the ABC network, but its producers are the Madison-Avenue advertising agency, J. Walter Thompson, which made the broadcast for its clients, the programme sponsors, Roxxon Motor Oil. That would place any legal action - _were there to be any –_ within the jurisdiction of Judge Franklin’s own circuit.”

The voice on the other end of the phone said, very firmly and very distinctly (so that Angie could make out the exact words) “I hear you, Carter. You wanna tell me now where you are goin’ with this? And _exactly_ what it is you want from _me_?”

Peggy replied formally, “Sir, I very much hope to secure the US army’s support for the proposed charitable foundation I mentioned, in memory of Captain Rogers. Given the resistance to this scheme in some quarters, your allegiance would be much appreciated… The idea is that any organisations which profit from the Captain’s name, and of course the name of Captain America, would contribute financially to a fund that would benefit the people of New York – particularly young people from similar neighbourhoods to where Steve Rogers grew up, who are seeking financial assistance in matters of educational and professional advancement.”

“Holy crap!” exclaimed Angie loudly (before immediately clapping her hand over her own mouth).

The colonel was speaking again. Peggy listened with a raised eyebrow and a shrewd, amused smile. “Yes, sir. And I’m sure you too feel that his memory and legacy could be put to far better, nobler use than for the sale of motor oil. Or even dairy products, since I understand that now the _Adventure Program_ has finished, the J. Walter Thompson agency is proposing a new series, entitled _Kraft Presents Captain America!_ for its clients, Kraft Foods.”

A series of explosive sounds came through the receiver, which Angie assumed were expletives. Peggy began to laugh suddenly. “I know, sir. I also regularly see children with tin shields, which are apparently made by a toy manufacturer in Hoboken, and when I lived at a women’s boarding house on the Upper East Side, my neighbour had a Captain America lunch box, which she allegedly took with her to ballet classes. (Of course, I realise now that she wasn’t a dancer at all, but was in fact a particularly deranged Leviathan spy, so she no doubt only bought the lunch box to provoke me – but she did usefully alert me to the variety of Captain America household items available to buy at Macy’s department store!)”

The conversation continued a little while longer, on what sounded like amicable terms, and it was clear that an agreement was being reached between Peggy and her army colonel. Meanwhile Angie, momentarily distracted by Peggy’s reference to Dottie, recalled a morning when Dottie had elaborately filled her lunch box with food from the Griffith’s breakfast service, and then thrust the box into Peggy’s hands, in order to adjust the seams of her stockings. Peggy had looked momentarily dumbfounded – at the time Angie assumed because of Dottie’s childish choice of tin – whilst Helen had laughed and said, “Dottie, did you steal that from your kid brother? Don’t forget to pack some M&Ms in there!” Like Peggy, Angie was now convinced that this incident had been entirely contrived on Dottie’s part, and she shook her head incredulously at the manipulative pettiness of Dottie’s deadly lunacy.

Peggy put down the phone. “I think we’re getting somewhere,” she declared happily. “That was my former commanding officer – in his own way he is actually rather a (as you would say) ‘pussy cat’!”

“Peggy,” began Angie solemnly, “That. Was…” (then excitement and admiration got the better of her) “ _so, so amazing_! Oh, my God Peg, I can’t believe you said and did all that!”

Peggy smiled modestly. “I was inspired by you and Carol, really,” she replied. “Oh, and Miss Fry, too, in her own way (given her enthusiasm for contacting mayors and governors on matters she feels strongly!) But mostly it’s down to _you,_ Angie. You were the one that got me thinking about the New Yorkers who are truly Steve’s people, and how he would have wanted to help young people from Brooklyn – and how he certainly _wouldn’t_ want to devote _any_ peace-time effort to making money for Roxxon. And Howard is also behind the idea, and he wants to give money to the foundation just because he’s Howard.” Peggy paused, and blinked a little before adding quietly. “I feel as though this way, Steve is still able to do some good in the world, the way he wanted to – and _I_ am still able to make sure he does, which is how it used to be, when we first met…” She smiled. “Thank you, Angie.”

“ _Me_? Peggy, I really didn’t do nothin’!”

“Yes, you very much did, Angie dear,” said Peggy seriously.

*

Angie had a new role in her sights – although it was also a role that had been on her mind since she was fifteen years old.

‘’I can help you with the accent,” offered Peggy. “Well, the accents really.”

Esther was a big fan of George Bernard Shaw and she lectured Angie sternly on the importance of retaining Shaw’s original ending, and of not allowing Eliza to end up with Professor Higgins in the final scene, as happened in some performances of the play. Reluctantly Angie felt obliged to point out that whilst she, Angie, would certainly always reject the Henry Higgins’s of this world, whatever Eliza did in this particular production would ultimately be determined by its (male) director and producers. (Of course later the same day at Eve’s bar, Lou asserted happily that once _she_ and _Angie_ were running a theatre company of their own, then Eliza would _never_ end up getting together with “’orrible ’iggins” at the end of the night.)

Angie went to her audition feeling quietly confident that she would be good in the role, and that she was living something of Eliza’s life herself (being a ‘kid from Brooklyn’ who now lived in an apartment with six bedrooms, eight bathrooms and a roof terrace for ‘al fresco dining’). When she was cast in the part, Esther and Rebecca were thrilled, and Peggy said she had known all along that this would happen, because Angie was a truly wonderful actress, who had made Eliza entirely her own. (In fact, in Angie’s mind, Eliza sometimes seemed like a girl who started out as Angela Martinelli and ended up as Margaret Carter – although, of course, strictly speaking Peggy was far too clever, and far too good in a fight, ever to qualify as a truly refined, English lady!)

It was only a small theatre, and it certainly wasn’t the longest run or the best paid company, but Angie had the starring role. Peggy, Carol, Esther and Rebecca came to see the show lots of times between them, and Peggy seemed to love it more each evening she went. And on the opening night, more than seven years after she first took Angie to see the play on a real stage in a Manhattan theatre, Nana Martinelli travelled across the Brooklyn Bridge to watch her granddaughter play Eliza Doolittle in George Bernard Shaw’s _Pygmalion_.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in my headcanon, Angie inspired Peggy to set up a charitable foundation in memory of Steve, which supported New Yorkers (both sexes, all races and ethnicities) from poorer neighbourhoods in their education and careers. (Also a throw-away comment by Angie about Dottie’s training possibly planted the seed for the establishment of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academies which we see in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.)
> 
> It took me a while to work out how I wanted this to end. I decided to keep this as pre-relationship, partly because I’ve written Angie in this fic as quite sexually inexperienced, so it made sense for this particular story that she is discovering her sexuality through falling in love with Peggy. Also I’ve kept this as pre-season 2, and I don’t think that Peggy would be ready for a relationship at this point. Whilst tipping blood off a bridge – like scattering someone’s ashes – might be both symbolic and therapeutic, in my experience grief doesn’t work in such a straightforward, linear way, that just doing this would actually enable a person to move on. (Personally I read the kisses with two different men in season 2 as being moments when the California change-of-scene and sunshine gave Peggy a bit of a grief-holiday, and I envisage her returning to New York and being hit anew with a sense that wartime losses are still with her. That’s how I imagine her emotional process to play out in those early post-war years.)
> 
> Re the radio show references: there’s a brilliantly researched book, by Cynthia B. Meyers, called A Word from our Sponsor: Admen, Advertising, and the Golden Age of Radio (published by Fordham University Press in 2014) which explains how radio shows in the US in the 30s, 40s and 50s were actually produced by advertising agencies for their clients, the sponsors of the shows. The agencies, and the writers they employed, were entirely uncredited, to give the illusion that the shows were being created by the manufacturers of soaps, cigarettes, make-up, motor oil etc. who sponsored them. The J. Walter Thompson agency was a real agency featured in this book. (Since it doesn’t actually exist anymore, I thought I’d use it for this fic.) If you want to get a sense of how fantastically authentic (as well as hilarious) The Captain America Adventure Program, as it is written and performed in Agent Carter, really is you can find masses of old-time US radio shows online here:  
> https://www.oldtimeradiodownloads.com
> 
> I feel a special mention should go to Ralph Garman, because his performance on Agent Carter is SO amazingly true to how US radio announcers sounded in the 1940s. I came up with Kraft Presents Captain America! by amalgamating two real shows that ran in the 1940s: Kraft Music Hall (on radio & TV 1933-1971, sponsored by Kraft Foods) and Lux Radio Theater (1934- 1955, sponsored by Unilever, makers of Lux Soap – which always began with the announcer more-or-less shouting “Lux Presents Hollywood!”)
> 
> Whilst the 1940s is too early for image rights and publicity rights really, I based Judge Jerome J. Franklin on the real-life Judge Jerome Frank, who coined the term "right of publicity" in 1953. I feel that Peggy would have been sufficiently politically and legally savvy to be able to persuade sponsors, manufacturers and the US military to get behind her foundation, and to consider it in their best interests to support and contribute to it. (Maybe the very dubious Roxxon wouldn’t, but I like to think that my fictional, Hoboken-based toy company would, and that the real-life Kraft Foods would too!)
> 
> Anyway - I think this is the second-longest fic I have ever posted on this site. If you're still here, thanks for reading, and for making it all the way to the end! :)


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